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JOHN VARLEY • Gotta Sing, Gotta

J. E. Pournelle Spider Ro binson Rog er Zelazny

^STEVEI^TLEY^DIANA'KING JOHN KENNEDY

02766

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July 1976

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WILL YOU BE

K% AT THE
Oik FUTURE?

June 25 th -29th

Here’s your chance to attend the
greatest science fiction event ever!

Gaze upon what’s in your future if you act now . . .

• For five full dayfe you’ll visit science fiction/fact exhibits, programs,
writing and art workshops, displays by SF publishers and a fantastic
around-the-clock film festival of over 100 classic feature-length Science
Fiction & Fantasy films of the past 70 years.

• You’ll meet over 50 of the best-known SF authors and editors who’ll join
you for readings, discussions and rap sessions.

• You won’t want to miss the SF Memorabilia Room, an Arts and Crafts
Show, Dealers’ Rooms featuring books, film materials, art and collectables.
Authors’ Autograph Booths and much more!

• SF EXPO ’76 will occupy two entire convention floors of The New York
Hilton. Your registration will entitle you to all that SF EXPO ’76 has to offer
for this five day extravaganza. You’ll be able to come and go as you please.
Registration is $18.50 -I- $1.48 (8% NYC sales tax). SF EXPO ’76 has also
arranged for domestic and overseas charter flights hosted by SF authors.
Don’t let the future pass you by. Registration is limited, so act NOW!

You’ll save; $7.02 Off the door admission price.

Write for details, guest list and film guide, or better yet . . .

Make a check or M.O. payable to: Science Fiction Services Inc.,

Dept. 23, Box 862, Montclair, New Jersey 07042.

You’ll receive additional SF EXPO ’76 program information with your
registration.

Arnold E. Abramson, Publisher

Jay Tunick, Circulatiort Director J. E. Pournelle, Ph D., Science Editor

L. C. Murphy, Subscriptions Dept Theodore Sturgeon, Consulting Editor

C. M. Bolling, Assistant Editor Spider Robinson, Contributing Editor

James Baen, Editor

NOVELETTES

GOTTA StNG, GOTTA DANCE, John Varley 4

Of late Mr. Varley has been specializing in
the creation of new art-forms. This time it's
the life-form that is new, while the art is
very, very old. . .

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE, John Kennedy ... 128
Given a modicum of intelligence and good
will mankind has a splendid future. Without
it—

SHORT STORIES

LARVAL STAGE, Steven Utley 31

Wherein the first meeting between Man
and Alien is interrupted in an all-too-
familiar fashion.

WIND MUSIC, Diana King 106

On Spindrift music was not created, but
was gleaned from the winds — to do other-
wise would be madness.

SERIAL (Part II of III)

THE HAND OF OBERON, Roger Zelazny 44

While visiting Dworkin a sudden Change
on the part of his host has forced Corwin
to ffee to parts unknown, and he finds him-
seif in the one place he has always
avoided — the Courts of Chaos.

FEATURES

A STEP FARTHER OUT, J. E. Poumelle 96

LASERS, GRASERS AND MARXISTS—

Maybe it was a gas-fire in Siberia. . .

BOOKSHELF, Spider Robinson 119

Wherein Spider praises the Editor of that
Certain Other magazine to the skies— in his
own write.

DIRECTIONS 156

Letters from McKinley, Klotz, Hawkins,

Bannon, Poumelle, Carey.

SFMART 159

Where to find it.

SHOWCASE, Jack Gaughan 161

Cover by Stephen Fabian, from GOTTA SING, GOTTA DANCE
Interior illustrations by Ames, Fabian, Freff, Gaughan

GALAXY, Incorporating Worltls of IF, Is publlahod montNy by UPO PuMlabing Corporation, a aubaldlary
of Univorsal Publishing A Distributing Corporation. Arnold E. Abramson, PresM^t. Main Offlcas: 235
East 45 Straot, New York, N.Y. 10017. Single copy: $1.00. 12>l8sua subscription; $12.00 In U.S., $13.00
elsewhere.

Copyright ;c 1076 by UPD Publishing Corporation under International, Universal and Pan«Amerlcan
Copyright Conventions. Ail rights reserved. Second dess postage paid at New York, N.Y. and additional
mailing offices. The publtshwe assume no responsibility for unaollctted mstvlal. All stories printed In this
magazine are fiction and any similarity batween cheracters and actual parsons Is colnctdantal. Printed In
U.S.A.

Sailing in toward a rendezvous
with Janus, Bamum and Bailey en-
countered a giant, pulsing quarter-
note. The stem was a good five
kilometers tall. The note itself was
a kilometer in diameter, and glowed
a faint turquoise. It turned ponder-
ously on its axis as they approached
it.

“This must be the place,” Bar-
num said to Bailey.

“Janus approach-control to Bar-
num and Bailey,” came a voice
from the void. “You will encounter
the dragline on the next revolution.
You should be seeing the visual in-
dicator in a few minutes.”

Barnum looked down at the
slowly turning, irregular ball of
rock and ice that was Janus, inner-
most satellite of Saturn. Something
was coming up behind the curve of
the horizon. It didn’t take long for
enough of it to tecome visible so
they could see what it was. Bamum
had a good laugh.

“Is that yours, or theirs?” he
asked Bailey.

Bailey sniffed. “Theirs. Just how
siUy do you think I am?”

The object rising behind the
curve of the satellite was a butterfly
net, ten kilometers tall. It had a
long, fluttering net trailing from a
gigantic hoop. Bailey sniffed again,
but applied the necessary vectors to
position them for being swooped up
in the preposterous thing.

“Come on, Bailey,” Barnum
chided. “You’re just jealous be-
cause you didn’t think of it first.”

“Maybe so,” the symb con-
ceded. “Anyway, hold onto your
hat, this is likely to be quite a
jerk.”

The illusion was carried as far as
was practical, but Barnum noticed
that the first tug of deceleration
started sooner than one would ex-
pect if the transparent net was more
than an illusion. The force built up
gradually as the electromagnetic
field clutched at the metal belt he
had strapped around his waist. It
lasted for about a minute. When it
had trailed off, Janus no longer ap-
peared to rotate beneath them. It
was growing closer.

“Listen to this,” Bailey said.
Barnum’s head was filled with mu-
sic. It was bouncy, featuring the
reedy, flatulent, yet still engaging
tones of a bass saxophone in a
honky-tonk tune that neither of
them could identify. They shifted
position and could just make out the
location of Pearly Gates, the only
human settlement on Janus. It was
easy to find because of the weav-
ing, floating musical staffs that ex-
truded themselves from the spot like
parallel strands of spider web.

The people who ran Pearly Gates
were a barrel of laughs. All the ac-
tual structures that made up the
above-ground parts of the settlement
were disguised behind whimsical
holographic projections. The whole
place looked like a cross between a
ehild’s candy-land nightmare and an
early Walt Disney cartoon.

Dominating the town was a giant

GOHA SING, GOTTA DANCE

calliope with pipes a thousand me-
ters tall. There were fifteen of them,
and they all were bouncing and
swaying in time to the saxophone
music. They would squat down as if
taking a deep breath, then stand up
again, emitting a colored smoke
ring. The buildings, which Bamum
knew were actually functional, unin-
teresting hemispheres, appeared to
be square houses with flowerboxes
in the windows and cartoon eyes
peering out the doors. They trem-
bled and jigged as if they were
made of jello.

“Don’t you think it’s a trifle
overdone?’’ Bailey asked.

“Depends on what you like. It’s
kind of cute, in its own gaudy
way.”

They drifted in through the
spaghetti maze of lines, bars, six-
teenth notes, rests, smoke rings,
and blaring music. They plowed
through an insubstantial eighth-note
run, and Bailey killed their remain-
ing velocity with the jets. They
lighted softly in the barely percepti-
ble gravity and made their way to
one of the grinning buildings.

^ * ir

Coming up to the entrance of the
building had been quite an experi-
ence. Barnum had reached for a
button marked LOCK CYCLE and
it had dodged out of his way, then
turned into a tiny face, leering at
him. Practical joke. The lock had
opened anyway, actuated by his

presence. Inside, Pearly Gates was
not so flamboyant. The corridors
looked decently like corridors, and
the floors were solid and gray.

“I’d watch out, all the same,”
Bailey advised, darkly. “These
people are real self-panickers. Their
idea of a good laugh might be to
dig a hole in the floor and cover it
with a holo. Watch your step.”

“Aw, don’t be such a sore loser.
You could spot something like that,
couldn’t you?”

Bailey didn’t answer, and Bar-
num didn’t pursue it. He knew the
source of the symb’s uneasiness and
dislike of the station on Janus.
Bailey wanted to get their business
over as soon as possible and get
back to the Ring, where he felt
needed. Here, in a corridor filled
with oxygen, Bailey was physically
useless.

Bailey’s function in the symbiotic
team of Bamum and Bailey was to
provide an environment of food,
oxygen, and water for the human,
Barnum. Conversely, Barnum pro-
vided food, carbon dioxide, and
water for Bailey. Barnum was a
human, physically unremarkable ex-
cept for a surgical alteration of his
knees that made them bend outward
rather than forward, and the over-
sized hands, called peds, that grew
out of his ankles where his feet
used to be. Bailey, on the other
hand, was nothing like a human.

Strictly speaking, Bailey was not
even a he. Bailey was a plant, and
Bamum thought of him as a male

GALAXY

only because the voice in his head
that was Bailey’s only means of
communication sounded masculine.
He had no shape of his own. He
existed by containing Barnum and
taking on part of his shape. He ex-
tended into Barnum’s alimentary
canal, in the mouth and all the way
through to emerge at the anus,
threading him like a needle. To-
gether, the team looked like a
human in a featureless spacesuit,
with a bulbous head, a tight waist,
and swollen hips. A ridiculously
exaggerated female, if you wish.

“You might as well start breath-
ing again,’’ Bailey said.

“What for? I will when I need to
talk to someone who’s not paired
with a symb. In the meantime, why
bother?’’

“I just thought you’d like to get
used to it.’’

“Oh, very well. If you think it’s
necessary.’’

So Bailey gradually withdrew the
parts of him that filled Barnum’s
lungs and throat, freeing his speech
apparatus to do what it hadn’t done
for over ten years. Bamum coughed
as the air flowed into his throat. It
was cold! Well, it felt like it,
though it was actually at the stan-
dard 72 degrees. He was unused to
it. His diaphragm gave one shudder,
then took over the chore of breath-
ing as if his medulla had never
been disconnected.

“There,” he said aloud, sur-
prised at how his voice sounded.
“Satisfied?”

“It never hurts to do a little test-
ing.”

“Let’s get this out in the open,
shall we? I didn’t want to come
here any more than you did, but
you know we had to. Are you going
to give me trouble about it until we
leave? We’re supposed to be a
team, remember?”

There was a mental sigh from his
partner.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just it. We
are supposed to be a team, and out
in the Ring we are. Neither of us is
anything without the other. Here
I’m just something you have to
carry around. I can’t walk, I can’t
talk; I’m revealed as the vegetable
that I am.”

Barnum was accustomed to the
symb’s periodic attacks of inse-
curity. In the Ring they never
amounted to much. But when they
entered a gravitational field Bailey
was reminded of how ineffectual a
being he was.

“Here yoU can breathe on your
own,” Bailey went on. “You could
see on your own if I uncovered
your eyes. By the way, do
you ...”

“Don’t be silly. Why should I
use my own eyes when you can
give me a better picture than I could
on my own?”

“In the Ring, that’s true. But
here all my extra senses are just ex-
cess mass. What good is an ad-
justed velocity display to you here?
The farthest thing I can sense is
twenty meters off, and stationary.”

GOHA SING, GOm DANCE

“Listen you. Do you want to turn
around and march back out that
lock? We can. I’ll do it if this is
going to be such a trauma for you.”

There was a long silence, and
Barnum was flooded with a warm,
apologetic sensation that left him
weak at his splay ed-out knees.

“There’s no need to apologize,”
he went on in a more sympathetic
tone. “I understand you. This is
just something we have to do to-
gether, like everything else, the
good along with the bad.”

“I love you, Barnum.”

“And you, silly.”

ir ^ it

The sign on the door read:
TYMPANI & RAGTIME
TINPANALLEYCATS

Barnum and Bailey hesitated out-
side the door.

“What are you supposed to do,
knock?” Barnum asked out loud.
“It’s been so long I’ve forgotten
how.”

“Just fold your fingers into a fist
and . . .”

“Not that.” He laughed, dispell-
ing his momentary nervousness.
“I’ve forgotten the politenesses of
human society. Well, they do it in
all the tapes I ever saw.” He
knocked on the door and it opened
by itself on the second rap.

There was a man sitting behind a
desk with his bare feet propped up
on it. Barnum had been prepared
for the shock of seeing another hu-

man, one who was not enclosed in
a symb, for he had encountered
several of them on the way to the
offices of Tympani and Ragtime.
But he was still reeling from the un-
familiarity of it. The man seemed to
realize it and silently gestured him
to a chair. He sat down in it, think-
ing that in the low gravity it really
wasn’t necessary. But somehow he
was grateful. The man didn’t say
anything for a long while, giving
Barnum time to settle down and ar-
range his thoughts. He spent the
time looking the man over care-
fully.

Several things were apparent
about him; most blatently, he was
not a fashionable man. Shoes had
been virtually extinct for over a cen-
tury for the simple reason that there
was nothing to walk on but padded
floors. However, current fashion
decreed that Shoes Are Worn.

The man was young-looking,
having halted his growth at around
twenty years. He was dressed in a
holo-suit, a generated illusion of
flowing color that refused to stay in
one spot or take on a definite form.
Other than that, he might well have
been nude, but Barnum couldn’t
tell.

“You’re Barnum and Bailey,
right?” the man said.

“Yes. And you’re Tympani?”

“Ragtime. Tympani will be here
later. I’m pleased to meet you.
Have any trouble on the way down?
This is your first visit, I think you
said.”

GALAXY

“Yes, it is. No trouble. And
thank you, incidentally, for the
ferry fee.”

He waved it away. “Don’t con-
cern yourself. It’s all in the over-
head. We’re taking a chance that
you’ll be good enough to repay that
many times over. We’re right
enough times that we don’t lose
money on it. Most of your people
out there don’t have the money to
afford being landed on Janus, and
then where would we be? We’d have
to go out to you. Cheaper this
way.”

“I suppose it is.” He was silent
again. He noticed that his throat
was beginning to get sore with the
unaccustomed effort of talking. No
sooner had the thought been formed
than he felt Bailey go into action.
The internal tendril that had been
withdrawn flicked up out of his
stomach and lubricated his larynx.
The pain died away as the nerve
endings were suppressed. It’s all in
your head, anyway, he told himself.

“Who recommended us to you?”

“Who . . . oh, it was . . . who
was it, Bailey?” He realized too'
late that he had spoken it aloud. He
hadn’t wanted to, he had a vague
feeling that it might be impolite to
speak to his symb that way. Rag-
time wouldn’t hear the answer, of
course.

“It was Antigone,” Bailey
supplied.

“Thanks,” Bamum said, silently
this time. “A man named Anti-
gone,” he told Ragtime.

GOHA SING, GOHA DANCE

The man made a note of that, and
looked up again, smiling.

“Well now. What is it you
wanted to show us?”

Barnum was about to describe
their work to Ragtime when the
door burst open and a woman sailed
in. She sailed in the literal sense,
banking off the door-jamb, grabbing
at the door with her left ped and
slamming it shut in one smooth mo-
tion, then spinning in the air to kiss
the floor with the tips of her fin-
gers, using them to slow her speed
until she was stopped in front of the
desk, leaning over it and talking ex-
citedly to Ragtime. Barnum was
surprised that she had peds instead
of feet, thinking that no one used
them in Pearly Gates. They made
walking awkward. But she didn’t
seem interested in walking.

“Wait till you hear what Myers
has done now!” she said, almost
levitating in her enthusiasm. Her
ped-fingers worked in the carpet as
she talked. “He re-aligned the sen-
sors in the right anterior ganglia,
and you won’t believe what it does
to the . . .”

“We have a client, Tympani.”
She turned and saw the symb-
human pair sitting behind her. She
put her hand to her mouth as if to
hush herself, but she was smiling
behind it. She moved over to
them — it couldn’t be called walking
in the low gravity; she seemed to
accomplish it by perching on two
fingers of each of her peds and
walking on them, which made it

look like she was floating. She
reached them and extended her
hand.

She was wearing a holo suit like
Ragtime’s but instead of wearing
the projector around her waist, as
he did, she had it mounted on a
ring. When she extended her hand,
the holo generator had to compen-
sate by weaving larger and thinner
webs of light around her body. It
looked like an explosion of pastels,
and left her body barely covered.
What Barnum saw could have been
a girl of sixteen; lanky, thin hips
and breasts and two blonde braids
that reached to her waist. But her
movements belied that. There was
no adolescent awkwardness there.

‘Tm Tympani,” she said, taking
his hand. Bailey was taken by sur-
prise and didn’t know whether to
bare the hand or not. So what she
grasped was Bamum’s hand covered
by the three-centimeter padding of
Bailey. She didn’t seem to mind.

“You must be Barnum and
Bailey. Do you know who the orig-
inal Barnum and Bailey were?”
“Yes, they’re the people who
built your big calliope outside.”

She laughed. “The place is a
kind of a circus, until you get used
to it. Rag tells me you have some-
thing to sell us.”

“I hope so.”

“You’ve come to the right place.
Rag’s the business side of the com-
pany; I’m the talent. So I’m the one
you’ll be selling to. I don’t suppose
you have anything written down?”

He n^de a wry face, then re-
membered she couldn’t see anything
but a blank stretch of green with a
hole for his mouth. It took some
time to get used to dealing with
people again.

“I don’t even know how to read
music.”

She sighed, but didn’t seem un-
happy. “I figured as much. So few
of you Ringers do. Honestly, if I i
could ever figure out what it is that
turns you people into artists I could
get rich.”

“The only way to do that is to go
out in the Ring and see for your-
self.”

“Right,” she said, a little embar- ,
rassed. She looked away from the
misshapen thing sitting in the chair.
The only way to discover the magic
of a life in the Ring was to go out
there, and the only way to do that
was to adopt a symb. Forever give
up your individuality and become a
part of a team. Not many people
could do that.

“We might as well get started,”
she said, standing and patting her
thighs to cover her nervousness.
“The practice room is through that i
door.”

He followed her in, to a dimly lit \
room that seemed to be half buried |
in paper. He hadn’t realized that
any business could require so much
paper. Their policy seemed to be to
stack it up and when the stack got
too high and tumbled into a land-
slide, kick it back into a corner.
Sheets of music crunched under his

GAUXY i

peds as he followed her to the
comer of the room where the syn-
thesizer keyboard stood beneath a
lamp. The rest of the room was in
shadows, but the keys gleamed
brightly in their ancient array of
black and white.

Tympani took off her ring and sat
at the keyboard. “The damn holo
gets in my way,” she explained. “I
can’t see the keys.” Barnum
noticed for the first time that there
was another keyboard on the floor,
down in the shadows, and her peds
were poised over it. He wondered if
that was the only reason she wore
them. Having seen her walk, he
doubted it.

She sat still for a moment, then
looked over to him expectantly.

“Tell me about it,” she said in a
whisper.

He didn’t know what to say.

“Tell you about it? Just tell
you?”

She laughed, and relaxed again,
hands in her lap.

“I was kidding. But we have to
get the music out of your head and
onto that tape some way. How
would you prefer? I heard that a
Beethoven Symphony was once
written out in English, each chord
and run described in detail. I can’t
imagine why anyone would want to,
but someone did. It made quite a
thick book. We can do it that way.
Or surely you can think of
another.” He was silent. Until she
sat at the keyboard, he hadn’t really
thought about that part of it. He

GOHA SING, GOHA DANCE

knew his music, knew it to the last
hemi-semi-demi-quaver. How to get
it out?

“What’s the first note?” she
prompted.

He was ashamed again. “I don’t
even know the names of the notes,”
he confessed.

She was not surprised. “Sing it.”

“I ... I’ve never tried to sing
it.”

“Try now.” She sat up straight,
looking at him with a friendly
smile, not coaxing but encouraging.

“I can hear it,” he said, desper-
ately. “Every note, every disso-
nance ... is that the right word?”

She grinned. “It’s a right word,
but I don’t know if you know what
it means. It’s the quality of sound
produced when the vibrations don’t
mesh harmoniously: J/5chord, it
doesn’t produce a sonically pleasing
chord. Like this:” and she pressed
two keys close together, tried sev-
eral others, then played with the
knobs mounted over the keyboard
until the two notes were only a few
vibrations apart and wavered sinu-
ously. “They don’t automatically
please the ear, but in the right con-
text they can make you sit up and
take notice. Is your music discor-
dant?”

“Some places. Is that bad?”

“Not at all. Used right,
it’s . . . well, not pleasing
exactly . . .” she spread her arms
helplessly. “Talking about music is
a pretty frustrating business, at best.
Singing’s much friendlier. Are you

going to sing for me, love, or must
I try to wade through your descrip-
tions?”

Hesitantly, he sang the first three
notes of his piece, knowing that
they sounded nothing like the or-
chestra that crashed through his
head but desperate to try something.
She took it up, playing the three
unmodulated tones on the syn-
thesizer; three pure sounds that were
pretty, but lifeless and light-years
away from what he wanted.

‘‘No, no, it has to be richer.”

‘‘All right. I’ll play what I think
of as richer, and we’ll see if we
speak the same language.” She
turned some knobs and played the
three notes again, this time giving
them the modulations of a string
bass.

‘‘That’s closer. But it’s still not
there.”

‘‘Don’t despair,” she said, wav-
ing her hand at the bank of dials be-
fore her. ‘‘Each of these will pro-
duce a different effect, singly or in
combination. I’m reliably informed
that the permutations are infinite.
So somewhere in there we’ll find
your tune. Now. Which way should
we go; this way, or this way?”

Twisting the knob she touched in
one direction made the sound be-
come tinnier; the other, brassier,
with a hint of trumpets.

He sat up. That was getting
closer still, but it lacked the rich-
ness of the sounds in his brain. He
had her turn the knob back and
forth, finally settled on the place

that most nearly approached his
phantom tune. She tried another
knob, and the result was a still
closer approach. But it lacked some-
thing.

Getting more and more involved,
Barnum found himself standing over
her shoulder as she tried another
knob. That was closer still, but . . .

Feverishly, he sat beside her on
the bench and reached out for the
knob. He tuned it carefully, then
realized what he had done.

‘‘Do you mind?” he asked. ‘‘It’s
so much easier sitting here and turn-
ing them myself.”

She slapped him on the shoulder.
‘‘You dope,” she laughed. ‘‘I’ve
been trying to get you over here for
the last fifteen minutes. Do you
think I could really do this by my-
self? That Beethoven story was a
lie.”

‘‘What will we do, then?”

‘‘What you’ll do is fiddle with
this machine, with me here to help
you and tell you how to get what
you want. When you get it right.
I’ll play it for you. Believe me. I’ve
done this too many times to think
you could sit over there and de-
scribe it to me. Now sing!”

He sang. Eight hours later Rag-
time came quietly into the room and
put a plate of sandwiches and a pot
of coffee on the table beside them.
Barnum was still singing, and the
synthesizer was singing along with
him.

* * *

GAIAXY

Barnum came swimming out of
his creative fog, aware that some-
thing was hovering in his field of
vision, interfering with his view of
the keyboard. Something white and
steaming, at the end of a long . . .

It was a coffe cup, held in Tym-
pani’s hand. He looked at her face
and she tactfully said nothing.

While working at the synthesizer
Barnum and Bailey had virtually
fused into a single being. That was
appropriate, since the music Bar-
num was trying Jo sell was the pro-
duct of their joint mind. It belonged
to both of them. Now he wrenched
himself away from his partner, far
enough away that talking to him be-
came a little more than talking to
himself.

“How about it, Bailey? Should
we have some?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve had to
expend quite a bit of water vapor to
keep you cool in this place. It could
stand replenishing.”

“Listen, why don’t you roll back
from my hands? It would make it
easier to handle those controls; give
me finer manipulation, see? Be-
sides, I’m not sure if it’s polite to
shake hands with her without actu-
ally touching flesh.”

Bailey said nothing, but his fluid
body drew quickly back from Bar-
num’s hands. He reached out and
took the offered cup, starting at the
unfamiliar sensation of heat in his
own nerve endings. Tympani was un-
aware of the discussion; it had taken
only a second.

GOHA SING, GOHA DANCE

The sensation was explosive
when it went down his throat. He
gasped, and Tympani looked wor-
ried.

“Take it easy there, friend.
You’ve got to get your nerves back
in shape for something as hot as
that.” She took a careful sip and
turned back to the keyboard. Bar-
num set his cup down and joined
her. But it seemed like time for a
recess and he couldn’t get back into
it. She recognized it and relaxed,
taking a sandwich and eating it like
she was starving.

“She is starving, you dope,’’
Bailey said. “Or at least very hun-
gry. She hasn’t had anything to eat
for eight hours, and she doesn’t have
a symb re-cycling her wastes into
food and dripping it into her veins.
So she gets hungry. Remember?”

“I remember. I’d forgotten.” He
looked at the pile of sandwiches. “I
wonder what it would feel like to
eat one of those?”

“Like this.’’ Barnum’s mouth
was flooded with the taste of a tuna
salad sandwich on whole wheat.
Bailey produced this trick, like all
his others, by direct stimulation of
the sensorium. With no trouble at
all he could produce completely
new sensations simply by shorting
one sector of Barnum’s brain into
another. If Barnum wanted to know
what the taste of a tuna sandwich
sounded like, Bailey could let him
hear.

“All right. And I won’t protest
that I didn’t feel the bite of it

against my teeth, because I know
you can produce that, too. And all
the sensations of chewing and swal-
lowing it, and much more besides.
Still,” and his thoughts took on a
tone that Bailey wasn’t sure he
liked,” I wonder if it would be the
polite thing to eat one of them?”

“What’s all this politeness all of
a sudden?” Bailey exploded. “Eat
it if you like, but I’ll never know
why. Be a carnivorous animal and
see if I care.”

‘‘Temper, temper,” Barnum
chidedr with tenderness in his
voice. “Settle down, chum. I’m not
going anywhere without you. But
we have to get along with these
people. I’m just trying to be dip-
lomatic.”

“Eat it, then,” Bailey sighed.
“You’ll min my ecology schedules
• for months — what’ll I do with all
that extra protein? — but why should
you care about that?”

Barnum laughed silently. He
knew that Bailey could do anything
he liked with it: ingest it, refine it,
burn it, or simply contain it and
expel it at the first opportunity. He
reached for a sandwich and felt the
thick substance of Bailey’s skin
draw back from his face as he
raised it to his mouth.

He had expected a brighter light,
but he shouldn’t have. He was
using his own retinas to see with for
the first time in years, but it was no
different from the cortex-induced
pictures Bailey had shown him all
that time.

“You have a nice face,” Tym-
pani said, around a mouthful of
sandwich. ‘‘I thought you would
have. You painted a very nice pic-
ture of yourself.”

“I did?” Barnum asked, in-
trigued. “What do you mean?”
“Your music. It reflects you. Oh,
I don’t see everything in your eyes
that I saw in the music, but I never
do. The rest of it is Bailey, your
friend. And I can’t read his expres-
sion.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t. But
can you tell anything about him?’ ’
She thought about it, then turned
to the keyboard. She picked out a
theme they had worried out a few
hours before, played it a little faster
and with subtle alterations in the to-
nality. It was a happy fragment,
with a hint of something just out of
reach.

‘‘That’s Bailey. He’s worried
about something. If experience is
any guide, it’s being here at Pearly
Gates. Symbs don’t like to come
here, or anywhere there’s gravity. It
makes them feel not needed.”

“Hear that?” he asked his silent
partner.

“Umm.”

“And that’s so silly,” she went
on. “I don’t know about it first-
hand, obviously, but I’ve met and
talked to a lot of Pairs. As far as I
can see, the bond between a human
and a symb is . . . well, it makes a
mother cat dying to defend her kit-
tens seem like a case of casual af-
fection. I guess you know that bet-

GALAXY

ter than I could ever say, though.”

“You stated it well,” he said.

Bailey made a grudging sign of
approval, a mental sheepish grin.
“She’s out-pointed me, meat-eater.
I’ll shut up and let you two talk
without me intruding my baseless
insecurities.”

“You relaxed him,” Barnum told
her, happily. “You’ve even got him
making jokes about himself. That’s
no small accomplishment, because
he takes himself pretty seriously.”

“That’s not fair, I can’t defend
myself.”

“I thought you were going to be
quiet?”

The work proceeded smoothly,
though running longer than Bailey
would have liked. After three days
of transcribing, the music was be-
ginning to take ^hape. A time came
when Tympani could a press a but-
ton and have the machine play it
back, much more than the skeletal
outline they had evolved on the first
day but still needing finishing
touches.

“How about ‘Contrapunctual
Cantata’?” Tympani asked.

“What?”

“For a title. It has to have a title.
I’ve been thinking about it, and
coined that word. It fits, because
the piece is very metrical in con-
struction: tight, on-time, on the
beat. Yet it has a strong counter-
point in the woodwinds.”

GOHA SING, GOHA DANCE

“That’s the reedy sections,
right?”

“Yes. What do you think?”
“Bailey wants to know what a
cantata is.”

Tympani shrugged her shoulders,
but looked guilty. “To tell you the
truth, I stuck that in for alliteration.
Maybe as a selling point. Actually,
a cantata is sung, and you don’t
have anything like voices in this.
You sure you couldn’t work some
in?”

Barnum considered it. “No.”
“It’s your decision, of course.”
She seemed about to say something
else but decided against it.

“Look, 1 don’t care too much
about the title,” Barnum said.
“Will it help you to sell it, naming
it that?”

“Might.”

“Then do as you please.”
“Thanks. I’ve got Rag working
on some preliminary publicity. We
both think this has possibilities. He
liked the title, and he’s pretty good
at knowing what will sell. He likes
the piece, too.”

“How much longer before we’ll
have it ready?”

“Not too long. Two more days.
Are you getting tired of it?”

“A little. I’d like to get back to
the Ring. So would Bailey.”

She frowned at him, pouting her
lower lip. “That means I won’t be
seeing you for ten years. This sure
can be a slow business. It takes
forever to develop new talent.”
“Why are you in it?”

She thought about it. “I guess
because music is what I like, and
Janus is where the most innovative
music in the system is born and
bred. No one else can compete with
your Ringers.”

He was about to ask her why she
didn’t pair up and see what it was
like, first-hand. But something held
him back; some unspoken taboo she
had set up, or perhaps it was him.
Truthfully, he could no longer un-
derstand why everyone didn’t pair
with a symb. It seemed the only
sane way to live. But he knew that
many found the idea unattractive;
even repugnant.

After the fourth recording session
Tympani relaxed by playing the
synthesizer for the Pair. They had
known she was good, and their
opinion was confirmed by the artist-
ry she displayed at the keyboard.

Tympani had made a study of
musical history. She could play
Bach or Beethoven as easily as the
works of the modern composers like
Bamum. She performed Beethoven’s
Eighth Symphony, first movement.
With her two hands and two peds
she had no trouble at all in making
an exact reproduction of a full sym-
phony orchestra. But she didn’t
limit herself to that. The music
would segue imperceptibly from the
traditional strings into the concrete
sounds that only an electronic in-
strument could produce.

She followed it with something
by Ravel that Barnum had never
heard, then an early composition by

Riker. After that, she amused him
with some Joplin rags and a march
by John Philip Sousa. She allowed
herself no license on these, playing
them with the exact instrumentation
indicated by the composer.

Then she moved directly into
another march. This one was incred-
ibly lively, full of chromatic runs
that soared and swooped. She
played it with a precision in the
bass parts that the old musicians
could never have achieved. Barnum
was reminded of old films seen as a
child, films full of snarling lions in
cages and elephants bedecked with
feathers.

“What was that?” he asked when
she was through.

“Funny you should ask, Mr.
Barnum. That was an old circus
march called ‘Thunder and Blazes.’
Or some call it ‘Entry of the
Gladiators.’ There’s some confusion
among the scholars. Some say it
had a third title, ‘Barnum and
Bailey’s Favorite,’ but the majority
think that was another one. If it
was, it’s lost, and too bad. But ev-
eryone is sure that Barnum and
Bailey liked this one, too. What do
you think of it?”

“I like it. Would you play it
again?”

She. did, and a third time later,
because Bailey wanted to be sure it
was safe in Barnum’s memory
where they could replay it later.

Tympani turned the machine off
and rested her elbows on the
keyboard.

GALAXY

“When you go back out,” she
said, “Why don’t you give some
thought to working in a synapticon
part for your next work?”

“What’s a synapticon?”

She stared at him, not believing
what she had heard. Then her ex-
pression changed to one of delight.

“You really don’t know? Then
you have something to learn.” And
she bounced over to her desk, grab-
bed something with her peds, and
hopped back to the synthesizer. It
was a small black -box with a strap
and a wire with an input jack at one
end. She turned her back to him
and parted her hair at the base of
her skull.

“Will you plug me in?” she
asked.

Bamum saw the tiny gold socket
buried in her hair, the kind that en-
abled one to interface directly with
a computer. He inserted the plug
into it and she strapped the box
around her neck. It was severely
funtional, and had an improvised,
breadboarded look about it, scarred
with tool marks and chipped paint.
It gave the impression of having
been tinkered with almost daily.

“It’s still in the development
process,” she said. “Myers — he’s
the guy who invented it — has been
playing with it, adding things.
When we get it right we’ll market it
as a necklace. The circuitry can be
compacted quite a bit. The first one
had a wire that connected it to the
speaker, which hampered my style
considerably. But this one has a

GOTTA SING, GOHA DANCE

transmitter. You’ll see what I mean.
Come on, there isn’t room in
here.”

She led the way back to the outer
office and turned on a big speaker
against the wall.

What it does,” she said, standing
in the middle of the room with her
hands at her sides, “is translate
body motion into music. It mea-
sures the tensions in the body nerve
network, amplifies them,
and . . .well. I’ll show you what I
mean. This position is null; no
sound is produced.” She was stand-
ing straight, but relaxed, peds to-
gether, hands at her sides, head
slightly lowered.

She brought her arm up in front
of her, reaching with her hand, and
the speaker behind her made a
swooping sound up the scale, break-
ing into a chord as her fingers
closed on the invisible tone in the
air. She bent her knee forward and
a soft bass note crept in, strengthen-
ing as she tensed the muscles in her
thighs.

She added more harmonics with
her other hand, then abruptly cocked
her body to one side, exploding
the sound into a cascade of chords.
Barnum sat up straight, the hairs
on his arms and spine sitting up with
him.

Tympani couldn’t see him. She
was lost in a world that existed
slightly out of phase with the real
one, a world where dance was
music and her body was the instru-
ment. Her eyeblinks became

stacatto punctuating phrases and her
breathing provided a solid rhythmic
base for the nets of sound her arms
and legs and fingers were weaving.

The beauty of it to Barnum and
Bailey was the perfect fitting to-
gether of movement to sound. He
had thought it would be just a
novelty: sweating to twist her body
into shapes that were awkward and
unnatural to reach the notes she was
after. But it wasn’t like that. Each
element shaped the other. Both the
music and the dance were impro-
vised as she went along and were
subordinate to no rules but her own
internal ones.

When she finally came to rest,
balancing on the tips of her peds
and letting the sound die away to
nothingness, Barnum was almost
numb. And he was surprised to hear
the sound of hands clapping. He
realized it was his own hands, but
he wasn’t clapping them. It was
Bailey. Bailey had never taken over
motor control.

it ir it

They had to have all the details.
Bailey was overwhelmed by the
new art form and grew so impatient
with relaying questions through
Barnum that he almost asked to take
over Barnum’s vocal cords for a
while.

Tympani was surprised at the de-
gree of enthusiasm. She was a
strong proponent of the synapticon
but had not met much success in
her efforts to popularize it. It had

its limitations, and was viewed as
an interesting but passing fad.

“What limitations?’’ Bailey
asked, and Barnum vocalized.

“Basically, it needs free-fall per-
formance to be fully effective.
There are residual tones that can’t
be eliminated when you’re standing
up in gravity, even on Janus. And I
can’t stay in the air long enough
here. You evidently didn’t notice it,
but I was unable to introduce many
variations under those conditions.”
Barnum saw soinething at once.
“Then I should have one installed.
That way I can play it as I move
through the Ring.”

Tympani brushed a strand of hair
out of her eyes. She was covered in
sweat from her performance, and
her face was flushed. Barnum almost
didn’t hear her reply, he was so
intent on the harmony of motion
in that simple movement. And the
synapticon was turned off.

‘‘Maybe you should. But I’d wait
if I were you.” Barnum was about
to ask why but she went on quickly.
“It isn’t an exact instrument yet,
but we’re working on it, refining it
every day. Part of the problems,
you see, is that it takes special
training to operate it so it produces
more than white noise. I wasn’t
strictly truthful with you when I
told you how it works.”

“How so?”

“Well, I said it measures ten-
sions in nerves and translates it.
Where are most of the nerves in the
body?”

GALAXY

Barnum saw it then. “In the
brain.”

“Right. So mood is even more
important in this than in most mu-
sic. Have you ever worked with an
alpha-wave device? By listening to
a tone you can control certain func-
tions of your brain. It takes prac-
tice. The brain provides the reser-
voir of tone for the synapticon,
modulates the whole composition. If
you aren’t in control of it, it comes
out as noise.”

“How long have you been work-
ing with it?”

“About three years.”

* * *

While Bamum and Bailey were
working with her, Tympani had to
adjust her day and night cycles to
fit with his biological processes.
The Pair spent the periods of sun-
light stretched out in Janus’ munici-
pal kitchen.

The kitchen was a free service
provided by the community, one
that was well worth the cost, since
without it paired humans would find
it impossible to remain on Janus
for more than a few days. It was a
bulldozed plain, three kilometers
square, marked off in a grid with
sections one hundred meters on an
edge. Bamum didn’t care for it —
none of the Pairs liked it much — but
it was the best they could do in a
gravity field.

No closed ecology is truly closed.
The same heat cannot be re-used
endlessly as raw materials can. Heat

GOHA SING, GOTTA DANCE

must be added, energy must be
pumped in somewhere along the
line to enable the plant component
of the cycle to synthesize the car-
bohydrates needed by the animal
component. Bailey could use some
of the low-level heat generated
when Barnum’s body broke down
these molecules, but that process
would soon lead to ecological bank-
ruptcy.

The symb solution was photosyn-
thesis, like any other plant, though
the chemicals Bailey employed for
it bore only a vague resemblance to
chlorophyl. Photosynthesis requires
large amounts of plant surface,
much more than is available on an
area the size of a human. And the
intensity of sunlight at Saturn’s
orbit was only one hundredth what
it was at Earth.

Barnum walked carefully, along
one of the white lines of the grid.
To his left and right, humans were
reclining in the centers of the large
squares. They were enclosed in only
the thinnest coating of symb; the
rest of the symb’s mass was spread
in a sheet of living film, almost in-
visible except as a sheen on the flat
ground. In space, this sunflower
was formed by spinning slowly and
letting centrigugal force form the
large parabolic organ. Here it lay
inert on the ground, pulled out by
mechanical devices at the comers of
the square. Symbs did not have the
musculature to do it themselves.

No part of their stay on Janus
made them yearn for the Rings as

much as the kitchen. Barnum re-
clined in the middle of an empty
square and let the mechanical claws
fit themselves to Bailey’s outer
tegument. They began to pull,
slowly, and Bailey was stretched.

In the Ring they were never more
than ten kilometers from the Upper
Half. They could drift up there and
deploy the sunflower, dream away a
few hours, then use the light pres-
sure to push them back into the
shaded parts of the Ring. It was
nice; it was not exactly sleep, not
exactly anything in human experi-
ence. It was plant consciousness, a
dreamless, simple awareness of the
universe, unemcumbered with
thought processes.

Barnum grumbled now as the
sunflower was spread on the ground
around them. Though the energy-
intake phase of their existence was
not sleep, several days of trying to
accomplish it in a gravity well left
Barnum with symptoms very like
lack of sleep. They were both get-
ting irritable. They were eager to re-
turn to weightlessness.

He felt the pleasant lethargy
creep over him. Beneath him,
Bailey was extending powerful root-
lets into the naked rock, using acid
compounds to eat into it and obtain
the small amounts of replacement
mass the Pair needed.

“So when are we going?” Bailey
asked, quietly.

“Any day, now. Any day.” Bar-
num was drowsy. He could feel the
sun starting to heat the fluid in

Bailey’s sunflower. He was like a
daisy nodding lazily in a green pas-
ture.

“I guess I don’t need to point it
out, but the trascription is complete.
There’s no need for us to stay.”

“I know.”

* * *

That night Tympani danced
again. She made it slow, with none
of the flying leaps and swelling
crescendos of the first time. And
slowly, almost imperceptibly, a
theme crept in. It was changed,
rearranged; it was a run here and a
phrase there. It never quite became
melodic, as it was on the tape, but
that was only right. It had been
scored for strings, brass, and many
other instruments but they hadn’t
written in a tympani part. She had
to transpose for her instrument. It
was still contrapunctual.

When she was done she told
them of her most successful con-
cert, the one that had almost cap-
tured the public fancy. It had been a
duet; she and her partner playing
the same synapticon while they
made love.

The first and second movements
had been well-received.

“Then we reached the finale,”
she remembered, wryly, “and we
suddenly lost sight of the harmonies
and it sounded like, well, one re-
viewer mentioned ‘the death
agonies a hyena.’ I’m afraid we didn’t
hear it.”

GALAXY

“Who was it? Ragtime?”

She laughed. ‘‘Him? No, he
doesn’t know anything about music.
He makes love all right, but he
couldn’t do it in 3/4 time. It was
Myers, the guy who invented the
synapticon. But he’s more of an en-
gineer than a musician. I haven’t
really found a good partner for that,
and anyway, I wouldn’t do it in
public again. Those reviews hurt.”
“But I get the idea you feel the
ideal conditions for making music
with it would be a duet, in free-fall,
while making love.”

She snorted. “Did I say that?”
She was quiet for a long time.

“Maybe it is,” she finally con-
ceded. She sighed. “The nature of
the instrument is such that the most
powerful music is made when the
body is most in tune with its sur-
roundings, and I can’t think of a bet-
ter time than when I’m approaching
an orgasm.”

“Why didn’t it work, then?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but
Myers blew it. He got excited,
which is the whole point, of course,
but he couldn’t control it. There I
was, tuned like a Stradivarius, feel-
ing heavenly harps playing inside
me, and he starts blasting out a
jungle rhythm on a kazoo. I’m not
going through that again. I’ll stick
to the traditional ballet like I did to-
night.”

“Tympani,” Bamum blurted, “I
could m^e love in 3/4 time.”

She got up and paced around the
room, looking at him from time to

goha sing, goha dance

time. He couldn’t see through her
eyes, but felt uncomfortably aware
that she saw a grotesque green blob
with a human face set high up in a
mass of putty. He felt a twinge of
resentment for Bailey’s exterior.
Why couldn’t she see himl He was
in there, buried alive. For the first
time he felt almost imprisoned.
Bailey cringed away from the feel-
ing.

“Is that an invitation?” she
asked.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have a synapti-
con.

“Me and Bailey talked it over.
He thinks he can function as one.
After all, he does much the same
thing every second of our lives.
He’s very adept at rearranging nerve
impulses, both in my brain and my
body. He more or less lives in my
nervous system.”

She was momentarily speechless.

“You say you can make mu-
sic .. . and hear it, without an in-
strument at all? Bailey does this for
you?”

“Sure. We just hadn’t thought of
routing body movements through
the auditory part of the brain.
That’s what you’re doing.”

She opened her mouth to say
something, then closed it again. She
seemed undecided about what to do.

“Tympani, why don’t you pair
up and go out into the Ring? Wait a
minute, hear us out. You told me
that my music was great and you
think it might even sell. How did I

do that? Do you ever think about
it?”

”1 think about it a lot,” she mut-
tered, looking away from him.

“When I came here I didn’t even
know the names of the notes that
were in my head. I was ignorant. I
still don’t know much. But I write
music. And you, you know more
about music than anyone I ever met;
you love it, you play it with beauty
and skill. But what do you create?”

“I’ve written things,” she said,
defensively. “Oh, all right. They
weren’t any good. I don’t seem to
have the talent in that direction.”

“But I’m proof that you don’t
need it. I didn’t write that music;
neither did Bailey. We watched it
and listened to it, happening all
around us. You can’t imagine what
it’s like out there. It’s all the music
you ever heard.”

ir -k ir

At first consideration it seemed
logical to many that the best art in
the system should issue from the
Rings of Saturn. Not until humanity
reaches Beta Lyrae or farther will a
more beautiful place to live be
found. Surely an artist could draw
endless inspiration from the sights
to be seen in the Ring. But artists
are rare. How could the Rings pro-
duce art in every human who lived
there?

The artistic life of the solar sys-
tem had been dominated by Ringers
for over a century. If it was the re-

sult of the heroic scale of the Rings
and their superb beauty, one might
expect the art produced to be
mainly heroic in nature, and beauti-
ful in tone and execution. Such had
never been the case. The paintings,
poetry, writing, and music of the
Ringers covered the entire range of
human experience and then went a
step beyond.

A man or a woman would arrive
at Janus for any of a variety of
reasons, determined to abandon his
or her former life and pair with a
symb. About a dozen of them de-
parted like that each day, not to be
heard of for up to a decade. These
people were a reasonable cross-
section of the race, ranging from
the capable to the helpless, some of
them kind and others cruel. There
were geniuses among them, and
idiots. They were precisely as
young, old, sympathetic, callous,
talented, useless, vulnerable and fal-
lible as any random sample of hu-
manity must be. Few of them had
any training or inclination in the
fields of painting or music or writ-
ing.

Some of them died. The Rings,
after all, were hazardous. These
people had no way of learning how
to survive out there except by trying i
and succeeding. But most came!
back. And they came back with pic- j
tures and songs and stories.

Agentty was the only industry on
Janus. It took a special kind of'
agent, because few Ringers could
walk into an office and present a

GALAXY

finished work of any kind. A liter-
ary agent had the easiest job. But a
tinpanalleycat had to be ready to
teach some rudiments of music to
the composer who knew nothing
about notation.

The rewards were high. Ringer
art was statistically about ten times
more likely to sell than art from
anywhere else in the system. Better
yet, the agent took nearly all the
profits instead of a commission, and
the artists had never pressured for
more. Ringers had little use for
money. Often, an agent could retire
on the proceeds of one successful
sale.

But the fundamental question of
why Ringers produced art was un-
answered.

Barnum didn’t know. He had
some ideas, partially confirmed by
Bailey. It was tied up in the blend-
ing of the human and symb mind.
A Ringer was more than a human,
and yet still human. When com-
bined with a Symb something else
was created. It was not under their
control. The best Barnum had been
able to express it to himself was by
saying that this meeting of two dif-
ferent kinds of mind set up a ten-
sion at the Junction. It was like the
addition of amplitudes when two
waves meet head-on. That tension
was mental, and fleshed itself out
by clothing it.self in the symbols
that were lying around for the tak-
ing in the mind of the human. It
had to be the human symbols be-
cause the intellectual life of a symb

gotta sing, goha dance

starts at the moment it comes in
contact with a human brain. The
symb has no brain of its own and
has to make do with using the
human brain on a time-sharing
basis.

* * *

They reached Tympani’s apart-
ment and she held the door for
theiiK Inside, she dialed all the fur-
niture into the floor, leaving a
large, bare room with white walls.

“What do I do?” she asked in a
small voice. He reached out and
took her hand, which melted into
the substance of Bailey.

“Give me your other hand.” She
did so, and watched stoically as the
green stuff crept up her hands and
arms. “Don’t look at it,” Barnum
advised, and she obeyed.

He felt air next to his skin as
Bailey began manufacturing an at-
mosphere inside himself and inflat-
ing like a balloon. The green sphere
got larger, hiding Barnum com-
pletely and gradually absorbing
Tympani. In five minutes the fea-
tureless green ball filled the room.

“I’d never seen that,” she said,
as they stood holding hands.

“Usually we do it only in
space.”

“What comes next?”

“Just hold still.” She saw him
glance over her . shoulder, and
started to turn. She thought better of
it and tensed, knowing what was
coming.

A slim tendril had grown out of
the inner surface of the symb and
groped its way toward the computer
terminal at the back of her head.
She cringed as it touched her, then
relaxed as it wormed its way in.

“How’s the contact?” Barnum
asked Bailey

“Just a minute . . . I’m still feel-
ing it out.” The symb had oozed
through the microscopic entry points
at the rear of the terminal and was
following the network of filaments
that extended through her cerebrum.
Reaching the end of one, Bailey
would quest further, searching for
the loci he knew so well in Bar-
num.

“They’re slightly different,” he
told Barnum. “I’ll have to do a lit-
tle testing to be sure I’m at the right
spots.”

Tympani jumped, then looked
down in horror as her arms and legs
did a dance without her volition.

“Tell him to stop that!” she
shrieked, then gasped as Bailey ran
through a rapid series of memory-
sensory loci; in almost instantaneous
succession she experienced the
smell of an orange blossom, the
void of the womb, an embarrassing
incident as a child, her first free-
fall. She tasted a meal eaten fifteen
years ago. It was like spinning a
radio dial through the frequencies,
getting fragments of a thousand un-
related songs, and yet able to hear
each of them in its entirety. It lasted
less than a second and left her
weak. But the weakness was illu-

sory, too, and she recovered and
found herself in Bamum’s arms.

“Make him stop it,” she de-
manded, struggling away from him.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Well, almost,” Bailey said. The
rest of the process was conducted
beneath her conscious level. “I’m
in,” he told Barnum. “I can’t
guarantee how well this will work. I
wasn’t built for this sort of thing,
you know. I need a larger entry
point than that terminal, more like
the one I sank into the top of your
head.”

“Is there any danger to her?

“Nope, but there’s a chance I’ll
get overloaded and have to halt the
whole thing. There’s going to be a
lot of traffic over that little tendril
and I can’t be sure it’ll handle the
load.”

“We’ll just have to do our best.”

“They faced each other. Tympani
was tense and stony-eyed.

“What’s next?” she asked again,
planting her feet on the thin but
springy and warm surface of Bailey.

“I was hoping you’d do the
opening bars. Give me a lead to fol-
low. You’ve done this once, even if
it didn’t work.”

“All right. Take my hands . . .”

* * ★

Barnum had no idea how the
composition would start. She chose
a very subdued tempo. It was not a
dirge; in fact, in the beginning it
had no tempo at all. It was a ffee-

GALAXY

form tone poem. She moved with a
glacial slowness that had none of
the loose sexuality he had expected.
Barnum watched, and heard a deep
undertone develop and knew it as
the awakening awareness in his own
mind. It was his first response.

Gradually, as she began to move
in his direction, he essayed some
movement. His music added itself
to hers but it remained seperate and
did not harmonize. They were sit-
ting in different rooms, hearing
each other through the walls.

She reached down and touched
his leg with her fingertips. She
drew her hand slowly along him and
the sound was like fingernails rasp-
ing on a blackboard. It clashed, it
grated, it tore at his nerves. It left
him shaken, but he continued with
the dance.

Again she touched him, and the
theme repeated itself. A third time,
with the same results. He relaxed
into it, understood it as a part of
their music, harsh as it was. It was
her tension.

He knelt in front of her and put
his hands to her waist. She turned,
slowly, making a sound like a rusty
metal plate rolling along a concrete
floor. She kept spinning and the
tone began to modulate and acquire
a rhythm. It throbbed, syncopated,
as a function of their heartbeats.
Gradually the tones began to soften
and blend. Tympani’s skin was glis-
tening with sweat as she turned fast-
er. Then, at a signal he never con-
sciously received, Barnum lifted her

goha sing, goha dance

in the air and the sounds cascaded
around them as they embraced. She
kicked her legs joyously and it
combined with the thunderous bass
protest of his straining leg muscles
to produce an airborne series of
chromatics. It reached a crescendo
that was impossible to sustain, then
tapered off as her feet touched the
floor and they collapsed into each
other. The sounds muttered to
themselves, unresolved, as they
cradled each other and caught their
breath.

“Now we’re in tune, at least,’’
Tympani whispered, and the symb-
synapticon picked up the nerve im-
pulses in her mouth and ears and
tongue as she said it and heard it,
and mixed it with the impulses from
Barnum’s ears. The result was a
vanishing series of arpeggios con-
structed around each word that
echoed around them for minutes.
She laughed when she heard it,
and that was music even without the
dressings.

The music had never stopped. It
still inhabited the space around
them, gathering itself into dark
pools around their feet and pulsing
in a diminishing allegretto with their
hissing breath.

“It’s gotten dark,’’ she whis-
pered, afraid to brave the intensity
of sound if she were to speak aloud.
Her words wove around Barnum’s
head as he lifted his eyes to look
around them. “There are things
moving around out there,” she said.
The tempo increased slightly as her

heart caught on the dark-on-dark
outlines she sensed.

“The sounds are taking shape,”
Barnum said. “Don’t be afraid of
them. It’s in your mind.”

“I’m not sure I want to see that
deeply into my mind.”

* * *

As the second movement started,
stars began to appear over their
heads. Tympani lay supine on a sur-
face that was beginning to yield be-
neath her, like sand or some thick
liquid. She accepted it. She let it
conform to her shoulderblades as
Barnum coaxed music from her
body with his hands. He found
handfuls of pure, bell-like tones,
unencumbered with timbre or reso-
nance; existing by themselves. Put-
ting his lips to her, he sucked out a
mouthful of chords which he blew
out one by one, where they clus-
tered like bees around his nonsense
words, ringing change after change
on the harmonies in his voice.

She stretched her arms over her
head and bared her teeth, grabbing
at the sand that was now as real to
her touch as her own body was.
Here was the sexuality Barnum had
sought. Brash and libidinous as a
goddess in the Hindu pantheon, her
body shouted like a dixieland
clarinet and the sounds caught on
the waving tree limbs overhead and
thrashed about like tattered sheets.
Laughing, she held her hands before
her face and watched as sparks of

blue and white fire arced across her
fingertips. The sparks leaped out to
Barnum and he glowed where they
touched him.

The universe they were visiting
was an extraordinarily cooperative
one. When the sparks jumped from
Tympani’s hands into the dark,'
cloud-streaked sky, bolts of light-
ning came skittering back at her.
They were awesome, but not fear-
some. Tympani knew them to be
productions of Bailey’s mind. But
she liked them. When the tornados
formed above her and writhed in a
dance around her head, she liked
that, too.

The gathering storm increased as
the tempo of their music increased,
in perfect step. Gradually, Tympani
lost track of what was happening.
The fire in her body was trans-
formed into madness; a piano rol-
ling down a hillside or a harp being
used as a trampoline. There Was the
drunken looseness of a slide trom-
bone played at the botton of a well.
She ran her tongue over his cheek
and it was the sound of beads of oil
falling on a snare drum. Barnum
sought entrance to the concert hall,
sounding like a head-on collision of
harpsichords.

Then someone pulled the plug on
the turntable motor and the tape was
left to thread its way through the,
heads at a slowly diminishing speed
as they rested. The music gabbled
insistently at them, reminding them
that this could only be a brief in-
termission, that they were in the

GALAXY

command of forces beyond them-
selves. They accepted it, Tympani
sitting lightly in Barnum’s lap, fac-
ing him, and allowing herself to be
cradled in his arms.

“Why the pause?’’ Tympani
asked, and was delighted to see her
words escape her mouth not in
sound, but in print. She touched the
small letters as they fluttered to the
ground.

“Bailey requested it,’’ Barnum
said, also in print. “His circuits are
overloading.’’ His words orbited
twice around his head, then van-
ished.

“And why the skywriting?’’

“So as not to foul the music with
more words.’’

She nodded, and rested her head
on his shoulder again.

Barnum was happy. He gently
stroked her back, producing a
warm, fuzzy rumble. He shaped the
contours of the sound with his fin-
gertips. Living in the Ring, he was
used to the feeling of triumphing
over something infinitely vast. With
the aid of Bailey he could scale
down the mighty Ring until it was
within the scope of a human mind.
But nothing he had ever experi-
enced rivalled the sense of power he
felt in touching Tympani and
getting — music.

A breeze was starting to eddy
around them. It rippled the leaves
of the tree that arched over them.
The lovers had stayed planted on
the ground during the height of the
storm; now the breeze lifted them

into the air and wafted them into
the gray clouds.

Tympani had not noticed it.
When she opened her eyes all she
knew was that they were back in
limbo again, alone with the music.
And the music was beginning to
build.

The last movement was both
more harmonious and less varied.
They were finally in tune, acknow-
ledging the baton of the same con-
ductor. The piece they were extem-
porizing was jubilant. It was noisy
and broad, and gave signs of be-
coming Wagnerian. But somewhere
the Gods were laughing.

Tympani flowed with it, letting it
become her. Barnum was sketching
out the melody line while she was
content to supply the occassional
appogiatura, the haunting nuance
that prevented it from becoming
ponderous.

The clouds began to withdraw,
slowly revealing the new illusion
that Baily had moved them to. It
was hazy. But it was vast. Tympani
opened her eyes and saw

— the view from the Upper Half,
only a few kilometers above the
plane of the Ring. Below her was
an infinite golden surface and above
her were stars. Her eyes were
drawn to the plane, down
there. . .it was thin. Insubstantial.
One could see right through it.
Shielding her eyes from the glare of
the sun (and introducing a forlorn
minor theme into the music) she
peered into the whirling marvel they

GALAXY

had taken her out here to see and
her ears were filled with the shrieks
of her unspoken fear as Bailey
picked it up. There were stars down
there, all around her, and moving
toward her, and she was moving
through them, and they were begin-
ning to revolve, and . . .

... the inner surface of Bailey.
Above her unseeing eyes, a slim
green tendril, severed, was writhing
back into the wall. It disappeared.

* * 1 ^

“Burnt out.”

“Are you all right?” Barnum
asked him.

“I’m all right. Burnt out. You
felt it. I warned you the connection
might not handle the traffic.”

Barnum consoled him. “We
never expected that intensity.” He
shook his head, trying to clear the
memory of that awful moment. He
had his fears, but evidently no
phobias. Nothing had ever gripped
him like the Rings gripped Tym-
pani.

He gratefully felt Bailey slip in
and ease the pain back into a comer
of his mind where he needn’t look
at it. Plenty of time for that later,
on the long, silent orbits they would
soon be following . . .

Tympani was sitting up, puzzled,
but beginning to smile. Barnum
wished Bailey could give him a re-
port on her mental condition, but
the connection was broken. Shock?
He’d forgotten the symptoms.

goha sing, goha dance

“I’ll have to find out for my-
self,” he told Bailey.

“She looks all right to me,”
Bailey said. “I was calming her as
the contact was breaking. She might
not remember much.”

She didn’t. Or, mercifully, she
remembered the happiness but had
only a vague impression of the fear
at the end. She didn’t want to look
at it, which was just as well. There
was no need for her to be tantalized
or taunted by something she could
never have.

They made love there inside
Bailey. It was quiet and deep, and
lasted a long time. What lingering
hurts there were found healing in
that gentle silence, punctuated only
by the music of their breathing.

Then Bailey slowly retracted
around Barnum, contracting their
universe down to man-size and
forever excluding Tympani.

It was an awkward time for them.
Barnum and Bailey were due at the
catapult in an hour. All three knew
that Tympani could never follow
them, but they didn’t speak of it.
They promised to remain friends,
and knew it was empty.

Tympani had a financial state-
ment which she handed to Barnum.

“Two thousand, minus nineteen
ninety-five for the pills.” She
dropped the dozen small pellets into
his other hand. They contained the
trace elements the Pair could not
obtain in the Ring, and constituted
the only reason they ever needed to
visit Janus.

“Is that enough?” Tympani
asked, anxiously.

Barnum looked at the sheet of
paper. He had to think hard to re-
call how important money was to
single humans. He had little use for
it.

His bank balance would keep
him in supplement pills for
thousands of years if he could live
that long, even if he never came
back to sell another song. And he
understood now why there was so
little repeat business on Janus. Pairs
and humans could not mix. The
only common ground was art, and
even there the single humans were
driven by monetary pressures alien
to Pairs.

“Sure, that’s fine,” he said, and
tossed the paper aside. “It’s more
than I need.”

Tympani was relieved.

“I know that of course,” she
said, feeling guilty. “But I always
feel like an exploiter. It’s not very
much. Rag says this one could re-
ally take off and we could get rich.
And that’s all you’U ever get out of
it.”

Barnum knew that, and didn’t
care.

“It’s really all we need,” he re-
peated. “I’ve already been paid in the
only coin I value, which was the
privilege of knowing you.”

They left it at that.

ir it ir

The countdown wasn’t a long

one. The operators of the cannon
tended to herd the Pairs through the
machine like cattle through a gate.
But it was plenty of time for Bar-
num and Bailey, on stretched-time,
to embed Tympani in amber.

“Why?” Barnum asked at one
point. “Why here? Where does the
fear come from?”

“I saw some things,” Bailey said^'
thoyghtfully. “I was going to probe,
but then I hated myself for it. I
decided to leave her private traumas
alone.”

The count was ticking slowly
down to the firing signal, and a
bass, mushy music began to play in
Barnum ’s ears.

“Do you still love her?” Barnum
asked.

“More than ever.”

“So do I. It feels good, and it
hurts. I suppose we’ll get over it.
But from now on, we’d better keep
our world down to a size we can
handle. What is that music, any-
way?”

“A send-off,” Bailey said. He
accelerated them until they could
hear h. “It’s coming over the radio.
A circus march.”

Barnum had no sooner recognized
it than he felt the gentle but increas-
ing push of the cannon accelerating
him up the tube. He laughed, anc
the two of them shot out of the
bulging brass pipe of the Pearly
Gates Calliope. They made a bulls-
eye through a giant orange smoke
ring, accompanied by the strains of
“Thunder and Blazes.” ★

GALAXY

Larval

£p -

STEUEH UTLEY

early if he expected to get a place
up front.

No man is an island —
and yet, and yet. . .

As OF TWELVE-FIFTEEN this af-
ternoon,” the bland-faced woman
on the wall was saying, ‘‘when
Governor Trentino officially wel-
comes the delegation from 61 Cygni
in the name of the Terran Network,
the human race will no longer be
alone. The significance of this event
canno — ’ ’

He blanked the wall with a word
and finished loading the heavy pis-
tol, then sighted along the large-
mouthed barrel at nothing in par-
ticular.

‘‘What time is it?” he asked, put-
ting the weapon into the left pocket
of his jacket.

‘‘Seven minutes and forty-three
seconds before five a. m.,” said the
wall.

He nodded. It would be getting
light outside, and the crowds would
soon begin to gather at the terminal.
He left and hurried down to the
street. He would have to show up

Lumbering across the tarmac on
its tricycle landing gear, the
wedge-shaped shuttlecraft could
have been a sculptor’s larger-than-
life parody of the Cygnians. Gover-
nor James Amost Trentino smiled
slightly at the thought and watched
as the ship rolled into the shadow of
the disembarkation ramp and
lurched to a stop.

‘‘Aren’t you at all nervous about
this?” Vera Marcal asked at his
side.

Trentino did not look away from
the window. On the tarmac, the
ship began to extrude its cylindrical
airlock into the waiting mouth of
the ramp.

‘‘I woke up with a premonition
this morning,” he said. ‘‘Today is
going to go down as smoothly as
cream, Vera.”

Behind him, Emily Teasdale gave
a soft snort of amusement. ‘‘I hate
having to be the one to remind you,
James, but you checked out a dud
in the precog department. The fleet
and the Cygnian vessel have been
giving one another the eye upstairs
for the past four days, the
separatists are howling for yours
and Chicolini’s blood ... if you
had any sense, you’d be as scared
as the rest of us.”

Marcal shifted her attache case
from hand to hand and grinned at

GALAXY

the governor. “She’s right, James.
We’re walking the tightrope over
the abyss. If we don’t get the Cyg-
nians into the Network, TNC will
be putting your head out to dry on
an iron spike.”

“You two are such a damned
comfort,” Trentino said with a
sigh. “Be calm. Chicolini’s been
aboard the alien vessel ever since it
dropped into orbit. He knows them,
and they know him. He’ll put them
at their ease. The separatists are too
much in the minority to cause real
trouble. Be calm. This is the big
moment. The one we’ve been wait-
ing and working for. The moment
they’ll always remember us for.”
“That’s what George Custer told
his troops in 1876,” Teasdale said.

He half-turned to give her a sour
look. His throat beeped softly. He
pressed a fingertip against a small,
hard lump under his jaw and said,
in sub-vocals, trentino here.

major chicolini and the cygnian
have left the shuttlecraft, hummed
the little black button attached to
Trentino’s right earlobe, and are
now coming up the ramp.

thank you. He shot a questioning
look at one of the many uniformed
security guards posted at intervals
throughout the lobby. The woman
signaled that she, too, had received
the information.

“Well,” Trentino said to his two
aides, “bright smiles now.”

They moved away from the win-
dow overlooking the tarmac and
stood at attention before the sealed

larval stage

door of the ramp. Trentino touched
his sub-dermal communicator again.
max.

everything’ s fine out here on the
street, governor, monitors going full
blast, lots of excitement, but noth-
ing to worry about, looks like the
anti-network factions and the
xenophobes are sleeping late, or
watching it at home and bitching.

thanks, max.

He took his finger off his throat,
and then the ramp doors slid open,
and Major Joseph F. Chicolini and
the Cygnian delegate stepped forth.

Trentino gasped in spite of him-
self.

It had been one thing to see the
images the Cygnians broadcast from
their starship. It was quite another
thing altogether to have one of the
creatures stand close, to hear the
sound its chitinous feet made on the
floor, to smell its dusty odor.

The Cygnian was a wedge-bodied
being with a shiny blue carapace,
stilt-like legs with bulbous joints,
clusters of lesser appendages
clutched tightly against its under-
side. Its face, or, rather, the
droplet-like cluster of sensory or-
gans above the horn-lipped mouth at
the point of the wedge, was on a
level with Trentino’s chin.

Major Chicolini, a smallish man
who did not look especially com-
fortable in his ornate dress uniform,
saluted, took Trentino’s hand for a
second and said, “Governor Tren-
tino, may I present the delegate
from 61 Cygni?”

Trentino and the two women
bowed stiffly from the waist.

The Cygnian unfolded a delicate-
looking grasping appendage, took
a hemispherical object from a hols-
ter strapped above the first joint of
its foreleg and held the flat surface
of the instrument against its throat
sac.

“We see you once again,” it said
in a startling bass growl, “and we
rejoice. We see that you are well,
and we are satisified.”

“We extend a welcome in the
name of the Terran Network,” the
governor replied, “and we con-
gratulate you on your mastery of
our language.”

He smiled and darted a look at
the major, touched his throat and
said, what was that part about see-
ing me again, chicolini?

the cygnian mass-mind at work,
bear it in mind when you’re dealing
with the delegate, governor, the
twelve or thirteen billion adult cyg-
nians compose a single entity with a
shared consciousness, natural for it
to assume we’re no different.

“We have a vehicle waiting,”
Trentino said, “to convey us to the
reception at Doucet Tower.” He
turned, and Major Chicolini and the
alien drew abreast of him. Marcal
and Teasdale fell into step behind
them. As they started across the
lobby, half a dozen security guards
detached themselves from the walls
and moved with them.

Trentino’s throat beeped again.
go ahead.

terminal remains cleared, save
for your party and security person-
nel, from gate three to the street.

good, keep it that way. He
touched his throat again, max.

crowd knows you’re coming, ex-
citement level’s shooting up, but ev-
eryone’ s behaving, nobody’s tried
to break through the security line,
god knows how they’ll react when
you step out, though, this terminal
just wasn’t laid out for maximum
security maneuvers, sir.
don’t i know it.

They walked on in silence dis-
turbed only by the click of the Cyg-
nian’s feet. When they arrived at
the main doors of the terminal,
Trentino almost hesitated. Through
the smoky dark plate glass, he
could see the van and the escort
vehicles, the two parallel lines' of
uniformed men and women holding
back the crowd. He swallowed hard
and abruptly realized that the palms
of his hands were slick with perspi-
ration.

Calmly now, he told himself.
This is your day, J. A. The day the
Cygnians first set foot upon a Ter-
ran Network world. The day you
welcome 61 Cygni into the Net-
work. Calmly now. With dignity.

He put a slight smile on his lips
and stepped through the doorway,
into the hazy warmth of Alpha Cen-
tauri’s midday light, into a swelling
tide of ohs and ahs and here they
come NOWs. Three red, pearl-
smooth telefax balloons settled
lower in the air above his head and

GALAXY

fixed their glittering glass eyes on
him, on Major Chicolini, on the
Cygnian. He glanced up for the
benefit of the cameras, shot a
quick, nervous look at the open
mouths and widening eyes beyond
the security line on his left, then, as
the murmurs of the multitude
deepened to a roar, forced himself
to look straight ahead at the van.

There was an urgent buzzing
sound from his communicator. The
sound did not have time in which
register upon his mind as the
emergency signal before his earring
hissed, we're picking up someth —

The governor never knew
whether Max stopped speaking in
midsyllable or whether he simply
did not hear the rest of the sen-
tence. One of the guards before and
to the right of him lurched forward
from the security line, buckled at
the knees, toppled. Someone lunged
through the gap in the line and
pointed something in his direction,
but it was only after the first shot
had been fired that he recognized
the thing the person was holding as
a large gun. ,

There was a second shot, a
scream, yells. Unable to move or
speak, Trentino could only stare as
the attacker went down under sev-
eral security guards. Arms flailed.
Hands clutched. There was a third
shot, immediately followed by an
explosion above Trentino’s head.
Something struck him low on the
left side of the neck. He blinked,
touched the spot where the blow

larval stage

had fallen, felt a hard, sharp object
protruding from the flesh at the
juncture of neck and shoulder. His
hand came away wet and sticky.

The governor looked at the blood
on his fingers for a moment, then,
bewildered, at the telefax balloons
overhead. There were only two of
them now.

Unmindful of the hell breaking
loose, all around him, he sat down
on the pavement and rubbed his
fingertips together. Someone bawled
his name. Consciousness fled.

it If ir

The light in the room was soft
and soothing. He thought of the
look on Governor Trentino’s face,
and he tried to grin. But they had
paralyzed him. The muscles around
his slightly parted lips quivered in-
effectually. He made a sobbing
sound in the back of his throat.

. . . lonely lonely lonely 1 was so
lonely nobody ever paid any atten-
tion never heard a word 1 said never
looked at me before today oh oh but
oh how clever how cunning how
perfectly timed it was oh because
now they people everybody all of
those thousands who were there all
of those millions who saw it they
know who I am now when 1 walk
down the street they’ll recognize me
now they’ll say there goes that Al-
bert Dean Crater that man who the
man who who who told them they’d
be sorry who told them to stop ig-
noring him pay attention who knew

who knew how lonely how clever
how worthy of notice who knew
how to make them feel bad how to
make them sorry knew how how
about that Mr. Trentino Major
Joseph Chicolini alien how about
that you thought they’d all be look-
ing at you but I knew I knew I
knew how to make them all look!
at! ME!

The light in the room was soft
and soothing. He make a chuckling
sound in the back of his throat.

*• * *

“A call, sir,” the wall an-
nounced, “from Ms. Teasdale.”

Trentino frowned, his thick eye-
brows almost meeting above the
bridge of his nose, and stabbed a
finger down on the HOLD tab. The
wafer-thin dictation slate on the
desk before him clicked. He re-
garded the lines of type covering
the top half of the slate for a second
more before answering.

“Did she say what she wants?”

“She said only that it’s impor-
tant, sir.”

“Of course it is.” Trentino
looked at the slate and absently fin-
gered the faint pink scar at the base
of his neck, where the sliver of
shrapnel from the exploding telefax
balloon had struck him. He had not
been enjoying the task of preparing
a report to Terran Network Central
on Earth. He would, he knew,
enjoy the repercussions even less.
His gaze settled upon a paragraph a

quarter of the way down the slate.

. . . WERE LEAVING THE
TERMINAL WHEN A MAN
IDENTIFIED AS ALBERT DEAN
CRATER (AC -4 M/50-1199-512)
CLUBBED AC4AST SECURITY
OFFICER SARAH G SIMMONS,
BROKE THROUGH THE LINE
AND FIRED THREE SHOTS
FROM A RECOILLESS 15-MM
HAND CANNON, KISHEL &
DECKER MODEL 7, SERIAL #
14155. THE FIRST SHOT
STRUCK THE CYGNIAN DELE-
GATE ON ITS CARAPACE, DUG
A CENTIMETER-DEEP FURROW
ACROSS ITS BACK AND
RICOCHETED THROUGH A
HRST-FLOOR WINDOW OF THE
AC4AST MAIN LOBBY, SPRAY-
ING SECURITY PERSONNEL IN-
SIDE WITH GLASS BUT INJUR-
ING NONE OF THEM. THE—

“Sir,” the wall said, “Ms. Teas-
dale insists that you speak with
her.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Trentino
shoved the slate aside, , sank back
into his chair and watched across
the tips of steepled fingers as a rec-
tangular section of the wall oppo-
site his desk shimmered, dissolved
and was replaced by an image of
the pale face of Emily Teasdale. He
forced a smile that buried the ends
of his moustache in the creases
bracketing his mouth and said,
“Emily.”

“We’re still waiting for the re-
sults of this man Crater’s psyche-
check, Governor.”

GALAXY

“They’re on their way down
now. Chicolini’s still trying to ex-
plain matters to the Cygnian?”
Teasdale grimaced and nodded.
“Is the alien still having fits?”
“No. Not really. Though I
wouldn’t blame it if it was. It’s got-
ten over the shock of the incident at
least to the point where it isn’t so
much angry as baffled.”

“Have Chicolini assure the dele-
gate that Crater is certifiably in-
sane.”

“Of course.”

“Emily, does Chicolini think we
have any chance at all of getting
ourselves out of this mess intact.”
Teasdale started to shake her
head, then shrugged. “He’s not
very optimistic. Governor. Even
with evidence of Crater’s insanity,
he thinks it’s going to be extremely
difficult, if not impossible, to make
the alien understand exactly what
happened at the terminal.”

“But surely the Cygnian realizes
that we took every possible step to
ensure its safety, and that — ”

“What Chicolini is faced with,”
Teasdale cut in, “is trying to ex-
plain irrational behavior on the part
of a member of our race to an entity
incapable of quite grasping the idea
that the whole of Homo sapiens
isn’t totally responsible for all of its
parts.”

Treiitino groaned softly. He saw
Teasdale look off-camera, obviously
listening to someone, saw her nod
and accept a red-backed folder.

“The report on Crater just ar-

tARVAL STAGE

It is the 21st century, but Scop is in
1963— attending assassinations. He’s
warned, cajoled, pleaded ... but he
knows lie’s a failure. Trying to alter
the future, he has merely reinforced it!

BappyN.

Mslzbspg

255

CJ.

I oocn

rived,” she said, facing the gover-
nor again. “I hope it helps.”

“Keep me posted, Emily.”

“Of course.”

Teasdale’s image shrank and van-
ished. Trentino touched another but-
ton on his desk. “Osborn.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“Any change upstairs?”

“No, sir. Fleet reports that the
Cygnian vessel still has its shields
up and its weapons systems at the
ready. No activity apart from that.”
“Fine.” I guess, he added to
himself as he cleared the line. “Get
me Duncan at the hospital.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a pause.
“Sir, Ms. Graham is calling.”

Trentino mouthed a couple of
heartfelt obscenities. “Put her on
hold.”

Lamont Duncan’s face appeared
on the wall. “Hello, Governor.”
“Any word yet on Vera?”
Duncan’s teeth went into his
lower lip for a second. “They’re
still working on her. Possible inter-
nal injuries resulting from the con-
cussion when the cannon shell
struck her attache case. And her
arm almost came off from the
elbow down. They had her frozen
down within three minutes of the
shooting. She may be all right. She
may be all mush inside, and they’d
have to scoop her out and put in
prostheses.”

“God damn it.” He scowled at
the dictation slate. “Okay. Stay
there, Lamont. Call me if. . . .”
“Of course, sir.”

Trentino blanked the wall. It
said, “Ms. Graham is holding,
sir.”

The governor repressed a snarl.
He had never liked Katherine
Graham, and his inability to root
her out of the Network bureaucracy
of Alpha Centauri IV had never
ceased to rankle him. “Put her
on!”

Graham looked pleased with her-
self when her image solidified.
“Governor,” she said, “we’ve
completed the public-opinion survey
analysis. An overwhelming majority
of the populace feels that this man
Crater’s attack on the delegate from
61 Cygni is an outrage.”

“How wonderful.”

Graham nodded, oblivious to air
sarcasm. “We’ve laid out a whole
series of telefax releases, and, as
soon as you’ve approved them, we
can start feeding them to the public.
By linking Crater to the separatists,
we can effectively undermine — no,
better than that, we can utterly de-
stroy the credibility of the entire
anti-Earth movement. After that,
anybody who dares speak out
against Network policy, or against
the things from 61 Cygni, will run
the risk of being torn to pieces by
patriotic citizens.”

“That’s beautiful, Graham.
That’s what I call really taking ad-
vantage of a golden opportunity.”
Graham beamed. “I knew you’d
like it, sir.”

“Unfortunately, it isn’t the truth.
Crater isn’t a separatist. He’s a to-
tally apolitical, totally mad per-
son.”

“But—”

“Even if it was the truth,” Tren-
tino went on, “we couldn’t use him
to discredit the separatists.”

Graham stared at him disbeliev-
ingly. “Governor, we can’t throw
away a chance like this! Now,
while public opinion is definitely in
our favor, now is the time to kill
the separatist cause for all time!
We’ve never had a weapon like
Crator before!”

“We’ve never been tangled up
with aliens before, either.” He
paused, savoring the lost look in the
woman’s eyes. “In case you’ve

GALAXY

been too busy to keep abreast of
things, Graham, let me explain it to
you as simply as I can. What we’ve
been trying to do for the past ten
years, ever since the first expedition
to 61 Cygni, is get the Cygnians
into the Network. Crater’s compli-
cated matters to the tenth power.
You’ll complicate them infinitely
more if you get the public boiled up
over politics. We have to gloss over
internal disunities. We have to show
(he Cygnians that, unfortunate inci-
dents like this one notwithstanding,
we as a race are as ... as single-
minded in our desires as they are.
So discard your prospectus for the
anti-separatist releases.” He smiled.
“We must perforce break with tra-
dition and give out plain, unadorned
truth, Graham. I know that won’t
be any fun for you, but it’s essen-
tial.”

Without waiting for her to reply,
Trentino blanked the wall. Almost
at once, he was informed that Major
Chicolini was calling. The governor
made a tired sound, dialed for a
tranquilizer and waited for the drug
to enter his bloodstream through the
mucous membrane of mouth and
throat before accepting the call.

Major Chicolini looked grim. De-
spite the drug, Trentino felt the bot-
tom drop out of his stomach.

“Well?” the governor demanded.
“Have you. . . ?”

“It wants Crater, sir.”

“It whatT'

“The Cygnian wants Crater.”
Trentino dialed for a second tran-

iarval stage

quilizer. “Why does it want him?”
“It won’t say. Or it can’t say.”
Trentino ignored the tranquilizer
in his hand and glared at Chicolini.
“Major, I can’t just hand a Net-
work citizen, even a crazy one,
over to the alien. Especially not
without a reason.”

“Governor, 1 appreciate your
position. But the Cygnian insists
that if have Crater.”

“No. Emphatically not. Crater is
our responsibility.”

“Then I’ve just wasted ten
hours,” Major Chicolini snapped,
“convincing the delegate that Crater
is not our responsibility.” A note of
pleading entered his voice. “Sir, I
don’t think that the Cygnian has any
intention of harming Crater.
It’s . . . curious.”

“Curious? Curious about what?”
>“It’s asking to be allowed to
prove to itself, to its own satisfac-
tion, that what I’ve been telling it
about human beings is the truth.
That we are an adult, fully de-
veloped race of separate, whole-
unto-ourselves beings. As far as the
Cygnian knows, this is an irrecon-
ciliable dichotomy. The only exper-
ience it’s had with anything re-
motely resembling our kind of crea-
ture is with its own larvae. Vicious,
unpredictable things that don’t enter
the Cygnian mind-link until the
pupal stage.”

The two men stared at each other
for a long moment.

“It’s been a rotten day,” Tren-
tino finally said.

Major Chicolini nodded. “Let it
have Crater,” he said. “If you do,
chances are we won’t be much worse
off than we were when the delegate
and I came up the ramp at noon.”

“That’s your considered opin-
ion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You realize. Major, that we’re
all in bad, bad trouble if this — ”
Trentino leaned forward in his seat
to tap the dictation slate “ — goes
off to Earth without a happy ending
on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The governor massaged the
bridge of his nose and caught him-
self wishing, really wishing, that he
had grown up to be anything other
than a mildly efficient, mildy honest
politician.

“Very well,” he said. “The
Cygnian gets Crater.”

★ ★ ★

They’ll come to see me lots of
people men women everybody talk-
ing to me asking me want to know
why I did it oh my God yes I can
see their faces already every eye on
me telefax cameras oh and mi-
crophones the questions they’ll ask
me why did I do it why why want-
ing to find out wanting to know
asking me tell us Albert or tell us
Mr. Crater yes I like that Mr. Cra-
ter tell us Mr. Crater why did you
do it and I’ll look into the camera
telefax camera millions of people
seeing me hearing me on the wall
watching thinking about Albert Cra-

ter what made him do it saying yes
that’s Albert Crater the man on the
wall there the man who did it and
they’ll ask me why did you do it
Mr. Crater can you tell us won’t
you please tell us please Mr. Crater
I did it I’ll say I did it because oh
God why shouldn't I do it what else
have I ever done no no I’ll tell them
the reason I did it is is is. . . .

He lay upon his back, helpless,
unable to move, held against a
slick, slightly convex surface, in a
place where the air had an odd
flavor, where machinery hummed
softly to itself, where wedge-bodied
creatures clustered about him.

One of the creatures touched his
naked thigh with a chitinous claw.
“Don’t touch me, God damn it!’’
The creature pressed an instru-
ment against its throat and rumbled,
“This one is severed?”

“In a manner of speaking.” A
human voice. A smallish man in an
ornate but rather rumpled-looking
uniform appeared among the aliens.
“It is not a . . . young?”

“It is aberrant. It has reached its
full physical growth. It does not
conform to our standard. It is cut
off from the rest of its kind.”
“Severed,” said the alien.

The uniformed man bent over
him and whispered, “Crater.”
“Albert Crater. Albert Dean Cra-
ter. Mr. Albert Dean Crater.” He
studied the uniformed man’s face
for a second, trying to remember
where he had seen it before. “I
suppose you want to talk to me.”

“Crater, listen to me.”

“Listen to me." He strained
against the unyielding grip of the
convexity. “No one ever listens to
^e. It’s i\mt everybody listened.”
“Crater, do you know where you
are?”

“I want to see somebody. I want
everybody to hear why I did it.
Where is everybody?”

“The Cygnians — ”

“Cygnians fygnians pygnians.”
He giggled shrilly. “Wygnians.”
‘‘The Cygnians are going to
probe you. Crater. Just relax. Be
calm. It won’t hurt you.”
‘‘Everybody hurts me. Every-
body. I got back at them, though.
Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Did you see
the look on their faces?”

‘‘Just relax,” the uniformed man
hissed softly. He straightened and
looked at the aliens. “He’s as ready
as he can be. The drugs have worn
off. He’s fully conscious.”

The man spreadeagled on the
convexity closed his eyes. They
aren’t listening to me, he thought.
They’re ignoring me again. They
aren’t coming to talk to me. I’m
tired of being lonely. I’m tired of it.
That’s what I. Will tell them. I’m
tired. Of being. Cut. Off.

The curved surface beneath him
seemed to grow soft. Alarmed, he
opened his eyes and found himself
mottling through something warm
®od milky white in color. He
opened his mouth to cry out, but
*he stuff poured into his throat.
Silencing him without choking him.

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Directly above his face, a fuzzy
sphere of bluish light appeared.
Scintillae separated from it and
flickered out of existence. He shut
his eyes, trying to close out the
bluish light, and super-novae flared
on the inner sides of his eyelids,
slivers of glass sliced at his optic
nerves, something long and cool
and hard stabbed behind his face.
He had to look. He had to look.

He saw chitinous claws operating
levers. He saw consoles and
examined dials marked off with an-
gular characters and knew what they
signified. He saw one of the aliens
approaching along a tunnel-like .cor-
ridor, and, as he approached along
a tunnel-like corridor, he saw one
of the aliens watching him. He saw

the familiar green orb of Alpha
Centauri IV through an observation
port and knew a longing for
geometric buildings gleaming in the
harsh light of a strange sun. He saw
the uniformed man standing be-
tween two aliens. He saw the uni-
formed man standing on either side
of him. He saw a naked man
spreadeagled on the surface of a
glowing bubble. He saw the sphere
of bluish light above his face.

He saw, and something within
himself parted like tissue paper, and
he was calmed, and he was no
longer alone.

“This one,” he heard the alien
say, “is not severed now.”

It -k *

“Crater,” Dr. Janice Op-
penheimer said, “was a prize inef-
fectual. A person who’d spent the
first thirty-eight years of his life
feeling inadequate and ignored, ac-
complishing nothing, amounting to
nothing. He went over the edge, fi-
nally. But whatever the Cygnians
did to him, it seems to have helped.
He was calm, if exhausted, when
the major here returned him from
the aliens’ vessel.”

Trentino finished his cup of
stimulac and eased back into the
fragrant depths of his chair. He had
slept no more than thirteen of the
fifty-two hours since the shooting at
the terminal. He ached with fatigue.
Dr. Oppenheimer and Major Chico-

lini sat opposite his desk, both <
them looking fresh and rested. T1
governor regarded them enviously.

“Is Crater still certifiable?” 1
asked the doctor.

Dr. Oppenheimer shrugged. “It
too soon to tell. Cygnian psycb
therapuetic techniques are still b<
yond our comprehension at th
point.”

Major Chicolini cleared his thro
quietly and said, “The Cygnian
term for the larval stage of the
own species roughly translates i
severed. The condition of not beii
in communication with the adult
mass-mind. The larvae enter tl
pupal phase of development an
emerge as joined. There are aberrs
tions from time to time, whe
pupae emerged into adulthood b
can’t — or won’t, perhaps — lit
themselves with the other grow
ups. In such cases the Cygniai
. . .fix them.”

Trentino cocked an eyebrow
Dr. Oppenheimer. “And Crat^
has been fixed, too?”

“Crater has been somethingci
Governor. We don’t know what i
how. We ran three psyche-checl
on him in as many hours. He w
calm, happy, at worst, a little co
fused to find himself back on tl
ground again. At best, complete
cured of his psychosis.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the wa
“Dr. Oppenheimer has a call fro
Dr. Gill.”

“There’s a private line in the
brary,” Trentino said.

GALAlfl

“Thank you.” Dr. Oppenheimer
got to her feet and left the gover-
nor’s office.

Major Chicolini examined his
immaculately kept nails for a mo-
ment. “Governor, you look as
though you could stand to log about
twenty hours’ sleep time.”

Trentino gave him a tired smile.
“I intend to do Just that as soon as
I have the whole grisly mess neatly
tied up. I’m still hoping to have a
completely happy ending to tack
onto my report to TNC.”

“At least things don’t look as
bad now as they did two days ago.
We’re short a telefax balloon and a
plate-glass window, but nobody got
killed. Vera’s all right, you and the
Cygnian delegate and that security
guard Crater conked are all right
. . . plus. Crater himself may have
finally become, uh, joined to the
rest of the human race. Most impor-
tant, the Cygnians are still on good
terms with us.” Major Chicolini
grinned. “All things considered, I
think we’ve just about broken even,
sir.”

“Well, I just hope I never have
another two days like the past
two.”

Dr. Oppenheimer re-entered the
room. She was frowning.

“What’s wrong?” said Trentino.

“Crater. Dr. Gill says he’s suc-
cumbing to depression all of a sud-
den. I’d better go have a look.”

Trentino swore irritably. “Call
me as soon as you know what’s
going on.”

URVAL STAGE

“Certainly.” She left.

“Well,” Major Chicolini said
with a long sigh.

The governor nodded glumly.
“Lx5oks like our butterfly is revert-
ing to the larval stage, doesn’t it?”

* *

The light in the room was soft
and soothing. Dr. Gill had thought
it best to paralyze him again. He
lay upon his bed and stared up at
the featureless white ceiling through
a film of tears, and he tried to call
out whenever someone entered the
room to check on him.

Why don’t you listen to me?

Why won’t you talk to me?

What’s wrong with you?

Oh, God, God, don’t let me be
lonely again! I want them to be my
friends. I want them to know me. I
want them to love me. I want to be
their friend.

Why don’t they open up? What’s
wrong with them? Why don’t they
answer me God don’t let them cut
me off I want to be their friend but
they’re shutting me out resisting me
and I’m not strong enough to break
through can’t they understand aren’t
they able to hear me I keep trying
to reach them but I slide off I can’t
get in why don’t they HEAR ME?

Deep in his throat, the butterfly
made a strangled, angry noise, and
one of the caterpillars rushed into
the room to investigate. ★

Part Hof II

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

Random, Ganelon and I had been
conducted on a strange journey. Led
by the Unicorn of Amber, we had
passed through peculiar shadows, ar-
riving at last on an oval shelf of stone
at a place where the sea and the sky
seemed to come together — a place
chopped out of a mountain much like
Kolvir, creating a locale similar to
Amber, sans palace, sans city. In-
scribed upon the shelf was the Pattern
of Amber, leading me to the conclu-
sion that this had to be the real basis
of the world as I knew it, my own
home but its nearest shadow.

We were distracted by the emergence
of a purple griffin from a nearby cave.
It frightened Random’s horse, lago.
lago fled onto the Pattern, where he
was destroyed without trace by a vortex
of forces which suddenly occurred
overhead. The griffin tried to protect
us the while, so we decided he couldn’t
be all bad — some sort of watch-thing,
most likely.

This Pattern was strangely marred,
by a long black smear extending in a
direction corresponding to our own
south, the route of the black road. In
fact, the phenomena seemed related.
Damage to the Pattern could possibly
have created such an entrance to the
realm as the road represented.

Near to the center of the Pattern, at
the beginning of the smear, we noticed
a foreign object, which Ganelon recov-
ered. It was a Trump — which neither
Random nor I recognized — pierced by
“ dagger. Ganelon then came up with
the odd hypothesis that the blood of
Amber might act as a solvent on the
Pattern. I persuaded Random to test

the hand of OBERON

the notion and it proved correct. We
then realized what this must mean with
respect to the large, blotted section: a
human sacrifice. And Random, who
was one jump ahead of me, saw the
resemblance between himself and the
figure on the pierced Trump, conclud-
ing that his illegitimate son Martin had
been the subject of the ritual. It occur-
red to me that the Trump was executed
in brother Brand’s style, but I kept my
mouth shut, as Random had just prom-
ised to kill the person responsible and I
still had need of Brand.

Concluding that we had learned
whatever we had been brought thither
to learn, we sought to return to our
own world by means of Benedict’s
Trump. He transported us to that section
of Kolvir which had seen our most recent
battle with the forces of the black road.
There, we learned that Benedict knew
more than we had suspected concerning
Martin.

Random persuaded Benedict to con-
duct him through Shadow to Martin’s
last known address — at the home of
some people called the Tecys. He bor-
rowed Star and they rode off together.
At the time, I did not know that the
mysterious arm I had removed from
Benedict’s ghost in Tir-na Nog’th was
in my saddlebag.

Returning to Amber with Ganelon, I
visited Random’s wife Vialle to tell her
he would be delayed, and I wound up
telling her the entire story. I was con-
siderably cheered by the visit, and I re-
turned to my apartments for a nap
rather than visit Brand, who had been
asking for me.

At some dark hour I awoke, struck
by an idea as to how I might visit
Dworkin, our old mentor, now half-
mad, who had helped me to escape
from my cell some time before.

VI.

I went down to the dungeons and
cleaned the Trump he had drawn on
the wall for purposes of his own exit. I
was then able to use it myself, travel-
ing to his quarters in a series of
caverns in the place we had visited the
previous morning. They were located
at the back of the griffin’s cave. The
beast, I later learned, was actually set
to guard him, to keep him away from
the Pattern.

Mistaking me for Dad, Dworkin told
me a great many things. The Pattern
was somehow a projection of his own
mind, now damaged, and his main de-
sire now seemed to be to destroy it. An
exile from Chaos, he had created the
Pattern ages before, but had repented
the act when it was damaged and had
conspired with Dad to erase it —
destroying the world in the process —
with Dad to attempt its recreation in a
purer form. Dad had not been too hot
on the idea and had confined him, set-
ting the griffin, Wixer, to guard.
Dworkin’ s mind was obviously running
in a strange rut, a thing he was the
first to acknowledge, and it was dif-
ficult to get him to admit that there
was a way the Pattern might be re-
stored without going the apocalyptic
route. About this time he suffered a
spell. He had already demonstrated a
controlled shapeshifting ability as a
peculiar Joke. Now an uncontrolled
change seemed to come upon him and
he warned me to flee. I did.

Taking some special Trumps from
the drawer of the desk in his study, I
transported myself to an unusual place
just as he seemed about to attack me in
his new form.

Looking about me then, searching
my memory for correspondences, I
concluded that I had just arrived at the
Courts of Chaos.

^^HERE? The senses are such un-

certain things, and now mine were
strained beyond their limits. The
rock on which I stood ... If I at-

tempted to fix my gaze upon it, it
took on the aspect of a pavement on
a hot afternoon. It seemed to shift

and waver, though my footing was
undisturbed. And it was undecided

as to the portion of the spectrum it
might call home. It pulsated and
flashed like the skin of an iguana.
Looking upwards, I beheld a sky
such as I had never before set eyes
upon. At the moment, it was split
down the middle — half of it of

deepest night-black, and the stars
danced within it. When I say
danced, I do not mean twinkled;

they cavorted and they shifted mag-
nitudes; they darted and they cir-
cled; they flared to nova brilliance,
then faded to nothing. It was
a frightening spectacle to behold, and
my stomach tightened within me as
1 experienced a profound ac-
rophobia. Yet, shifting my gaze did
little to improve the situation. The
other half of the sky was like a bot-
tle of colored sands, continuously
shaken; belts of orange, yellow,
red, blue, brown and purple turned
and twisted; patches of green,
mauve, gray and dead white came
and went, sometimes snaking into
belthood, replacing or joining the
other writhing entities. And these,
too, shimmered and wavered, creat-
ing impossible sensations of dis-
tance and nearness. At times, some
or all seemed literally sky-high, and
then again they came to fill the air
before me, gauzy, transparent mists,
translucent swaths or solid tentacles

GALAXY

of color. It was not until later that I
realized that the line which sepa-
rated the black from the color was
advancing slowly from my right
while retreating to my left. It was
as if the entire celestial mandala
were rotating about a point directly
overhead. As to the light source of
the brighter half, it simply could not
be determined. Standing there, I
looked down upon what at first
seemed a valley filled with count-
less explosions of color; but when
the advancing darkness faced the
display away the stars danced and
burned within its depths as well as
above, giving them the impression
of a bottomless chasm. It was as if
I stood at the end of the world, the
end of the universe, the end of
everything. But far, far out from
where I stood, something hovered
on a mount of sheerest black — a
blackness itself, but edged and tem-
pered with barely perceptible flashes
of light. I could not guess at its
size, for distance, depth, perspec-
tive were absent here. A single
edifice? A group? A city? Or sim-
ply a place? The outline varied each
time that it fell upon my retina.
Now faint and misty sheets drifted
slowly between us, twisting, as’ if
long strands of gauze were buoyed
by heated air. The mandala ceased
its turning when it had exactly re-
versed itself. The colors were be-
hind me now, and imperceptible un-
less I turned my head, an action I
had no desire to take. It was pleas-
ant standing there, staring at the
formlessness from which all things
eventually emerged . . . Before the
Pattern, even, this thing was. I
knew this, dimly but surely, at the
very center of my consciousness. I

the hand of oberon

knew this, because I was certain
that I had been here before. Child
of the man I had become, it seemed
that I had been brought here in
some distant day — whether by Dad
or Dworkin, I could not now
recall — and had stood or been held
in this place or one very near to it,
looking out upon the same scene
with, I am certain, a similar lack of
comprehension, a similar sense of
apprehension. My pleasure was
tinged with a nervous excitement, a
sense of the forbidden, a feeling of
dubious anticipation. Peculiarly, at
that moment, there rose in me a
longing for the Jewel I had had to
abandon in my compost heap on the
shadow Earth, the thing Dworkin
had made so much of. Could it be
that some part of me sought a de-
fense or at least a symbol of resis-
tance against whatever was out
there? Probably.

As I continued to stare, fasci-
nated, across the chasm, it was as if
my eyes adjusted or the prospect
shifted once again, subtly. For now
I discerned tiny, ghostly forms mov-
ing within that place, like slow-
motion meteors along the gauzy
strands. I waited, regarding them
carefully, courting some small un-
derstanding of the actions in which
they were engaged. At length, one
of the strands drifted very near.
Shortly thereafter I had my answer.

There was a movement. One of
the rushing forms grew larger, and I
realized that it was following the
twisting way that led toward me. In
only a few moments, it took on the
proportions of a horseman. As it
came on, it assumed a semblance of
solidity without losing that ghostly
quality which seemed to cling to

everything which lay before me. A
moment later, I beheld a naked
rider on a hairless horse, both
deathly pale, rushing in my direc-
tion. The rider brandished a bone-
white blade; his eyes and the eyes
of the horse both flashed red. I did
not really know whether he saw me,
whether we existed on the same
plane of reality, so unnatural was
his mien. Yet I unsheathed Grays-
wandir and took a step backward as
he approached.

His long white hair shed tiny
sparkling motes, and when he
turned his head I knew that he was
coming for me, for then I felt his
gaze like a cold pressure across the
front of my body. I turned sidewise
and raised my blade to guard.

He continued, and I realized that
both he and the horse were bigger than
I had thought. They came on. When
they reached the point nearest me —
some ten meters, perhaps — the horse
reared as he drew it to a halt. They
regarded me then, bobbing and sway-
ing as if on a raft in a gently swelling
sea.

“Your name!” the rider de-
manded. “Give me your name, who
comes to this place!”

His voice produced a crackling
sensation in my ears. It was all of
one sound level, loud and without
inflection.

I shook my head.

“I give my name when I choose,
not when I am ordered to,” I said.
“Who are you?”

He gave three short barks, which
I took to be a laugh.

“I will hale you down and about,
where you will cry it out forever.”

I pointed Grayswandir at his
eyes.

“Talk is cheap,” I said. “Whis-
key costs money.”

I felt a faint cool sensation just
then, as if someone were toying
with my Trump, thinking of me.
But it was dim, weak, and I had no
attention to spare, for the rider had
passed some signal to his mount
and the beast reared. The distance is
too great, I decided. But this
thought belonged to another
shadow. The beast plunged ahead
toward me, departing the tenuous
roadway that had been its course.

Its leap bore it to a point far short
of my position. But it did not fall
from there and vanish, as I had
hoped. It resumed the motions of
galloping, and although its progress
was not fully commensurate with
the action, it did continue to
advance across the abyss at about half-
speed.

While this was occurring, I saw
that in the distance from which it
had come another figure appeared to
be headed my way. Nothing to do
but stand my ground, fight and
hope that I could dispatch this at-
tacker before the other was upon
me.

As the rider advanced, his ruddy
gaze flicked over my person and
halted when it fell upon Grayswan-
dir. Whatever the nature of the mad
illumination at my back, it had
tricked the delicate tracery on my
blade to life once more, so that that
portion of the Pattern it bore swam
and sparkled along its length. The
horseman was very near by then,
but he drew back on the reins and
his eyes leapt upward, meeting my
own. His nasty grin vanished.

“I know you!” he said. “You
are the one called Corwin!”

GALAXY

But we had him, me and my ally
momentum.

His mount’s front hoofs fell upon
the ledge and I rushed forward. The
beast’s reflexes caused it to seek
equal footing for its hind legs de-
spite the drawn reins. The rider
swung his blade into a guard posi-
tion as I came on, but I cross-
stepped and attacked from his left.
As he moved his blade cross-body,
I was already lunging. Grayswandir
sheared through his pale hide, enter-
ing beneath the sternum and above
the guts.

I wrenched my blade free and
gouts of fire poured like blood from
his wound. His swordarm sagged
and his mount uttered a shriek that
was almost a whistle as the blazing
stream fell upon its neck. I danced
back as the rider slumped forward
and the beast, now fully footed,
plunged on toward me, kicking. I
cut again, reflexively, defensively.
My blade nicked its left foreleg,
and it too, began to burn.

I sidestepped once again as it
turned and made for me a second
time. At that moment, the rider
erupted into a pillar of light. The
beast bellowed, wheeled and rushed
away. Without pausing, it plunged
over the edge and vanished into the
abyss, leaving me with the memory
of the smouldering head of a cat
which had addressed me long ago
and the chill which always accom-
panied the recollection.

I was backed against rock, pant-
ing. The wispy road had drifted
nearer — ten feet, perhaps, from the
ledge. I had developed a cramp in
my left side. The second rider was
rapidly approaching. He was not
pale like the first. His hair was dark

THE HAND OF OBERON

and there was color in his face. His
mount was a properly maned sorrel.
He bore a cocked and bolted
crossbow. I glanced behind me and
there was no retreat, no crevice into
which I might back.

I wiped my palm on my trousers
and gripped Grayswandir by the
forte of the blade. 1 turned side-
ways, so as to present the narrowest
target possible. 1 raised my blade
between us, hilt level with my
head, point toward the ground, the
only shield I possessed.

The rider came abreast of me and
halted at the nearest point on the
gauzy strip. He raised the crossbow
slowly, knowing that if he did not
drop me instantly with his single
shot, 1 might be able to hurl my
blade like a spear. Our eyes met.

He was beardless, slim. Possibly
light-eyed within the squint of his
aim. He managed his mount well,
with just the pressure of his legs.
His hands were big, steady. Capa-
ble. A peculiar feeling passed over
me as I beheld him.

The moment stretched beyond the
point of action. He rocked back-
ward and lowered the weapon
slightly, though none of the tension
left his stance.

“You,” he called out. “Is that
the blade Grayswandir?”

“Yes,” I answered, “it is.”

He continued his appraisal, and
something within me looked for
words to wear, failed, ran naked
away through the night.

“What do you want here?” he
asked.

“To depart,” I said.

There was a chish-cha, as his
bolt struck the rock far ahead and to
the left of me.

“Go then,” he said. “This is a
dangerous place for you.”

He turned his mount back in the
direction from which he had come.

I lowered Grayswandir.

“I won’t forget you,” I said.

“No,” he answered. “Do not.”

Then he galloped away, and mo-
ments later the gauze drifted off
also.

I resheathed Grayswandir and
took a step forward. The world was
beginning to turn about me again,
the light advancing on my right, the
dark retreating to my left. I looked
about for some way to scale the
rocky prominence at my back. It
seemed to rise only thirty or forty
feet higher, and I wanted the view
that might be available from its
summit. My ledge extended to both
my right and my left. On inspec-
tion, the way to the right narrowed
quickly, however, without affording
a suitable ascent. I turned and made
my way to the left.

I came upon a rougher spot in a
narrow place beyond a rocky shoul-
der. Running my gaze up its height,
an ascent seemed possible. I
checked behind me after the ap-
proach of additional threats. The
ghostly roadway had drifted farther
away; no new riders advanced. I
commenced climbing.

The going was not difficult,
though the height proved greater
than it had seemed from below.
Likely a symptom of the spatial dis-
tortion which seemed to have af-
fected my sight of so much else in
this place. After a time, I hauled
myself up and stood erect at a point
which afforded a better view in the
direction opposite the abyss.

Once again, I beheld the chaotic

colors. From my right, the darkness
herded them. The land they danced
above was rock-cropped and cra-
tered, no sign of any life within it.
Passing through its midst, however,
from the far horizon to a point in
the mountains somewhere to the
right, inky and serpentine, ran what
could only be the black road.

Another ten minutes of climbing
and maneuvering, and I had
positioned myself to view its ter-
minus. It swept through a broad
pass in the mountains and ran right
to the very edge of the abyss.
There, its blackness merged with
that which filled the place, notice-
able now only by virture of the fact
that no stars shone through it. Using
this occlusion to gauge it, I ob-
tained the impression that it con-
tinued on to the dark eminence
about which the misty strips drifted.

I stretched out on my belly, so as
to disturb the outline of the low
crest as little as possible to what-
ever unseen eyes might flick across
it. Lying there, I thought upon the
opening of this way. The damage to
the Pattern had laid Amber open to
this access, and I believed that my
curse had provided the precipitating
element. I felt now that it would
have come to pass without me, but
I was certain that I had done my
part. The guilt was still partly mine
though no longer entirely so, as I
had once believed. I thought then of
Eric, as he lay dying on Kolvir. He
had said that as much as he hated
me, he was saving his dying curse
for the enemies of Amber. In other
words, this, and these. Ironic. My
efforts were now entirely directed
toward making good on my least-
liked brother’s dying wish. His

GALAXY

curse to cancel my curse, me as the
agent. Fitting though, perhaps, in
some larger sense.

I sought, and was pleased not to
discover, ranks of glowing riders
setting forth or assembling upon
that road. Unless another raiding
party was already under way Amber
was still temporarily safe. A
number of things immediately trou-
bled me, however. Mainly, if time
did indeed behave as peculiarly in
that place as Dara’s possible origin
indicated, then why had there not
been another attack? They had cer-
tainly had ample time in which to
recover and prepare for another as-
sault. Had something occurred re-
cently, by Amber’s time, that is, to
alter the nature of their strategy? If
so, what? My weapons? Brand’s re-
covery?

Or something else?

I wondered, too, how far Ben-
edict’s outposts reached. Certainly
not this far, or I should have been
informed. Had he ever been to this
place? Had any of the others, within
recent memory, stood where I had
just stood, looking upon the Courts
of Chaos, knowing something that I
did not know? I resolved to ques-
tion Brahd and Benedict in this re-
gard as soon as I returned.

All of which led me to wonder
how time was behaving with me, at
that moment. Better not to spend
any more time here than I had to, I
decided. I scanned the other Trumps
I had removed from Dworkin’s
desk. While they were all of them
interesting, I was familiar with none
of the scenes depicted. I slipped my
own case then and riffled through to
Random’s Trump. Perhaps he was
the one who had tried to contact me

the hand of oberon

earlier. I raised his card and re-
garded it.

Shortly, it swam before my eyes
and I looked upon a blurred
kaleidescope of images, the impres-
sion of Random in their midst. Mo-
tion, and strangely twisting perspec-
tives . . .

“Random,” I said. “This is
Corwin.”

I felt his mind, but there was no
response from it. It struck me then
that he was in the middle of a hell-
ride, all his concentration bent on
warping the stuff of Shadow about
him. He could not respond without
losing control. I blocked the Trump
with my hand, breaking the contact.

I cut to Gerard’s card. Moments
later, there was contact. I stood.

“Corwin, where are you?” he
inquired.

“At the end of the world,” I
said. “I want to come home.”

‘‘Come ahead.”

He extended his hand. I reached
out and clasped it, stepped forward.

We were on the ground floor of
the palace in Amber, in the sitting
room to which we had all adjourned
on the night of Brand’s return. It
seemed to be early morning. There
was a fire going on the grate. No
one else was present.

“I tried to reach you earlier,” he
said. “I think Brand did, too. But I
can’t be sure.”

“How long have I been away?”

“Eight days,” he said.

“Glad I hurried. What’s happen-
ing?”

“Nothing untoward,” he said. “I
do not know what Brand wants. He
kept asking for you, and I could not
reach you. Finally, I gave him a
deck and told him to see whether he

could do any better. Apparently, he
could not.”

“I was distracted,” I said, “and
the time-flow differential was bad.”
He nodded.

“I have been avoiding him now
that he is out of danger. He is in
one of his black moods again, and
he insists he can take care of him-
self. He is right, in that, and it is
just as well.”

“Where is he now?”

“Back in his own quarters, and
he was still there as of perhaps an
hour ago — brooding.”

“Has he been out at all?”

“A few brief walks. But not for
the past several days.”

“I guess I had best go see him
then. Any word on Random?”
“Yes,” he said. “Benedict re-
turned several days ago. He said
they had found a number of leads
concerning Random’s son. He
helped him check on a couple of
them. One led further, but Benedict
felt he had best not be away from
Amber for too long, things being as
uncertain as they are. So he left
Random to continue the search on
his own. He gained something in
the venture, though. He came back
sporting an artificial arm — a beauti-
ful piece of work. He can do any-
thing with it that he could before.”
“Really?” I said. “It sounds
strangely familiar.”

He smiled, nodded.

“He told me you had brought it
back for him from Tir-na Nog’th. In
fact, he wants to speak with you
about it as soon as possible.”

“I’ll bet,” I said. “Where is he
now?”

“At one of the outposts he has
established along the black road.

You would have to reach him by
Trump.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Anything
further on Julian or Fiona?”

He shook his head.

“All right,” I said, turning to-
ward the door. “I guess I will go
see Brand first.”

“I’m curious to know what it is
that he wants,” he said.

“I will remember that,” I told
him.

I left the room and headed for the
stair.

VII.

I rapped on Brand’s door.

“Come in, Corwin,” he said.

I did, deciding as I crossed the
threshold that I would not ask him
how he had known who it was. His
room was a gloomy place, candles
burning despite the fact that it was
daytime and he had four windows.
The shutters were closed on three of
them. The fourth was only partway;
open. Brand stood beside this one,
staring out toward the sea. He was
dressed all in black velvet with a
silver chain about his neck. His belt
was also of silver — a fine, linked
affair. He played with a small dag-
ger, and did not look at me as I en-
tered. He was still pale, but his
beard was neatly trimmed and he
looked well-scrubbed and a bit
heavier than he had when last I had
seen him.

“You are looking better,” I said.
“How are you feeling?”

He turned and regarded me, ex-
pressionless, his eyes half-closed.

“Where the hell have you
been?” he said.

GALAXY

“Hither and yon. What did you
want to see me about?’’

“I asked you where you’ve
been.’’

“And I heard you,’’ I said,
reopening the door behind me.
“Now I am going to go out and
come back in. Supposing we start
this conversation over again?’’

He sighed.

“Wait a minute. I am sorry,’’ he
said. “Why are we all so thinskin-
ned? I do not know. — All right. It
may be better if I do start over
again.’’

He sheathed his dagger and cross-
ed to sit in a heavy chair of black
wood and leather.

“I got to worrying about all the
things we had discussed,’’ he said,
“and some that we had not. I
waited what seemed an appropriate
time for you to have concluded your
business in Tir-na Nog’th and re-
turned. I then inquired after you and
was told you had not yet come
back. I waited longer. First I was
impatient, and then I grew con-
cerned that you might have been
ambushed by our enemies. When I
inquired again later, I learned that
you had been back only long
enough to speak with Random’s
wife — it must have been a conversa-
tion of great moment — and then to
take a nap. You then departed once
more. I was irritated that you had
not seen fit to keep me posted as to
events, but I resolved to wait a bit
longer. Finally, I asked Gerard to
get hold of you with your Trump.
When he failed, I was quite con-
cerned. I tried it myself then, and
"'hile it seemed that I touched you
on several occasions I could not get
through. I feared for you, and now

the hand of oberon

I see that I had nothing to fear all
along. Hence, I was abrupt.”

“I see,” I said, taking a seat off
to his right. “Actually, time was
running faster for me than it was for
you, so from where I am sitting I
have hardly been away. You are
probably further recuperated from
your puncture than I am from
mine.”

He smiled faintly and nodded.
“That is something, anyway,” he
said, “for my pains.”

“I have had a few pains my-
self,” I said, “so don’t give me
any more. You wanted me for
something. Let’s have it.”
“Something is bothering you,”
he said. “Perhaps we ought to dis-
cuss that first.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s.”

I turned and looked at the paint-
ing on the wall beside the door. An
oil, a rather somber rendering of the
well at Mirata, two men standing
beside their horses nearby, talking.

“You’ve a distinctive style,” I
said.

“In all things,” he replied.

“You stole my next sentence,” I
said, locating Martin’s Trump and
passing it to him.

He remained expressionless as he
examined it, gave me one brief,
sidelong look and then nodded.

“I cannot deny my hand,” he
said.

“It executed more than that card,
your hand. Didn’t it?”

He traced his upper lip with the
tip of his tongue.

“Where did you find it?” he
asked.

“Right where you left it, at the
heart of things — in the real
Amber.”

“So . . .” he said, rising from
the chair and returning to the win-
dow, holding up the card as if to
study it in a better light. “So,” he
repeated, “you are aware of more
than I had guessed. How did you
learn of the primal Pattern?”

I shook my head.

“You answer my question first:
Did you stab Martin?”

He turned toward me once again,
stared a moment, then nodded sharp-
ly. His eyes continued to search
my face.

“Why?” I asked.

“Someone had to,” he ex-
plained, “to open the way for the
powers we needed. We drew
straws.”

“And you won.”

“Won. Lost?” He shrugged.
“What does any of this matter
now? Things did not come about as
we had intended. I am a different
person now than I was then.”

“Did you kill him?”

“What?’.’

“Martin, Random’s son. Did he
die as a result of the wound you in-
flicted?”

He turned his hands palms up-
ward.

“I do not know,” he said. “If he
did not, it was not because I did not
try. You need look no further. You
have found your guilty party. Now
that you have, what are you going
to do?”

I shook my head.

“I? Nothing. For all I know, the
lad may still be living.”

“Then let us move on to matters
of greater moment. For how long
have you known of the existence of
the true Pattern?’ ’

“Long enough,” I said. “Its ori-

GAIAXY

gin, its functions, the effect of the
blood of Amber upon it — Long
enough. I paid more attention to
Dworkin than you might have
thought. I saw no gain to be had in
damaging the fabric of existence,
though. So I let Rover lie sleeping
for a long, long while. It did not
even occur to me until I spoke with
you recently that the black road
might have been connected with
such foolishness. When I went to
inspect the Pattern I found Martin’s
Trump and all the rest.”

“I was not aware that you were
acquainted with Martin.”

“I have never set eyes on him.”
‘‘Then how were you aware he
was the subject of the Trump?”

‘‘I was not alone in that place.”
‘‘Who was with you?”

I smiled.

‘‘No, Brand. It is still your turn.
You told me when last we talked
that the enemies of Amber hied all
the way from the Courts of Chaos,
that they have access to the realm
via the black road because of some-
thing you and Bleys and Fiona had
done back when you were of one
mind as to the best way to take the
throne. Now I know what it is that
you did. Yet Benedict has been
watching the black road and I have
just looked upon the Courts of
Chaos. There is no new massing of
forces, no movement toward us
upon that road. I know that time
flows differently in that place. They
should have had more than enough
time to ready a new assault. I want
to know what is holding them back.
Why have they not moved? What
are they waiting for. Brand?”

‘‘You credit me with more
knowledge than I possess.”

the hand of OBERON

‘‘I don’t think so. You are the re-
sident expert on the subject. You
have dealt with them. That Trump
is evidence that you have been hold-
ing back on other matters. Don’t
weasel, just talk.”

‘‘The Courts . . .” he said.
‘‘You have been busy. Eric was a
fool not to have killed you
immediately — if he was aware you
had knowledge of these things.”
‘‘Eric was a fool,” I acknowl-
edged. ‘‘You are not. Now talk.”
‘‘But I am a fool,” he said, ‘‘a
sentimental one, at that. Do you re-
call the day of our last argument,
here in Amber, so long ago?”
“Somewhat.”

“I was sitting on the edge of my
bed. You were standing by my writ-
ing desk. As you turned away and
headed toward the door, I resolved
to kill you. I reached beneath my
bed, where I keep a cocked
crossbow with a bolt in it. I actually
had my hand on it and was about to
raise it when I realized something
which stopped me.”

He paused.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Look over there by the door.”

I looked, I saw nothing special. I
began to shake my head, just as' he
said, “On the floor.”

Then I realized what it was —
russet and olive and brown and
green, with a small geometric pat-
tern.

He nodded.

“You were standing on my favor-
ite rug. I did not want to get blood
on it. Later, my anger passed. So I,
too, am a victim of emotion and
circumstance.”

“Lovely story — ” I began.

“ — but now you want me to stop

stalling. I was not stalling, how-
ever. I was attempting to make a
point. We are all of us alive by one
another’s sufferance and an occa-
sional fortunate accident. I am
going to propose suspending that
sufferance and eliminating the pos-
sibility of accident in a couple of very
important cases. First though, to an-
swer your question, while I do not
know for certain what is holding
them back, I can venture a very
good guess. Bleys has assembled a
large strike force for an attack on
Amber. It will be nowhere near the
scale of the one on which you ac-
companied him, however. You see,
he will be counting on the memory
of that last attack to have con-
ditioned the response to this one. It
will probably also be preceeded by
attempts to assassinate Benedict and
yourself. The entire affair will be a
feint, though. I would guess that
Fiona has contacted the Courts of
Chaos — may even be there right
now — and has prepared them for the
real attack, which might be ex-
pected any time after Bleys’
diversionary foray. Therefore — ”

“You say this is a very good
guess,’’ I interrupted. “But we do
not even know for certain that Bleys
is still living.’’

“Bleys is alive,’’ he said. “I was
able to ascertain his existence via
his Trump — even a brief assessment
of his current activities — before he
became aware of my presence and
blocked me out. He is very sensi-
tive to such surveillance. I found
him in the field with troops he in-
tends to employ against Amber.’’

“And Fiona?’’

“No,” he said, “I did no exper-
imenting with her Trump, and I

would advise you not to either. She
is extremely dangerous, and I did
not want to lay myself open to her
influence. My estimate of her cur-
rent situation is based on deduction
rather than direct knowledge. I
would be willing to rely on it,
though.”

“I see,” I said.

“I have a plan.”

“Go ahead.”

“The manner in which you re-
trieved me from durance was quite
inspired, combining the forces of
everyone’s concentration as you
did. The same principle Could be
utilized again, to a different end. A
force such as that would break
through a person’s defense fairly
easily — even someone like Fiona, if
the effort is properly directed.”
“That is to say, directed by your-
self?”

“Of course. I propose that we as-
semble the family and force our
way through to Bleys and Fiona,
wherever they may be. We hold
them, locked in the full, in the
flesh, just for a moment or so. Just
long enough for me to strike.”

“As you did Martin?”

“Better, I trust. Martin was able
to break free at the last moment.
That should not occur this time,
with all of you helping. Even three
or four would probably be suffi-
cient.”

“You really think you can pull it
off, that easily?”

“I know we had better try. Time
is running. You will be one of the
ones executed when they take
Amber. So will I. What do you
say?”

“If I become convinced that it is
necessary. Then I would have no

GALAXY

choice but to go along with it.”

‘‘It is necessary, believe me. The
next thing is that I will need the
Jewel of Judgment.”

‘‘What for?”

‘‘If Fiona is truly in the Courts of
Chaos, the Trump alone will prob-
ably. be insufficient to reach her and
hold her — even with all of us be-
hind it. In her case, I will require
the Jewel to focus our energies.”

‘‘I suppose that could be ar-
ranged.”

‘‘Then the sooner we are about it
the better. Can you set things up for
tonight? I am sufficiently recovered
to handle my end of it.”

“Hell no,” I said, standing.
‘‘What do you mean?” He
clenched the arms of the chair,
half-rising. “Why not?”

“I said I would go along with it
if I became convinced that it was
necessary. You have admitted that a
lot of this is conjecture. That alone'
is sufficient to keep me from being
convinced.”

“Forget about being convinced
then. Can you afford to take the
chance? The next attack is going to
be a lot stronger than the last, Cor-
win. They are aware of your new
weapons. They are going to allow
for this in their planning.”

“Even if I agreed with you.
Brand, I am certain I could not
convince the others that the execu-
tions are necessary.”

“Convince them? Just tell them!
You’ ve got them all by the throat,
Corwin! You are on top right now.
You want to stay there, don’t
you?”

“I smiled and moved toward the
door.

“I will, too,” I said, “by doing

The hand of oberon

things my way. I will keep your
suggestion on file.”

“Your way is going to get you
dead. Sooner than you think.”

“I am standing on your rug
again,” 1 said.

He laughed.

“Very good. But I was not
threatening you. You know what I
meant. You are responsible for all
of Amber now. You have to do the
right thing.”

“And you know what I meant. I
am not going to kill a couple more
of us because of your suspicions. I
would need more than that.”

“When you get it, it may be too
late.”

I shrugged.

“We’ll see.”

I reached toward the door.

“What are you going to do
now?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t tell anybody everything
that I know. Brand. It is a kind of
insurance.”

“I can appreciate that. I only
hope that you know enough.”

“Or perhaps you fear that I know
too much,” I said.

For a moment a wary look
danced on the muscles beneath his
eyes. Then he smiled.

“I am not afraid of you,
brother,” he said.

“It is good to have nothing to
fear,” I said.

I opened the door.

“Wait,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You neglected to tell me who
was with you when you discovered
Martin’s Trump, in the place where
I had left it.”

“Why, it was Random,” I said.

“Oh. Is he aware of the particu-
lars?’’

“If you mean, does he know that
you stabbed his son,’’ I said, “the
answer is no, not yet.’’

“I see. And of Benedict’s, new
arm? I understand that you some-
how got it for him in Tir-na Nog’th.
I would like to know more about
this.’’

“Not now,’’ I said. “Let’s save
something for our next get-together.
It won’t be all that long.’’

I went on out and closed the
door, my silent regards to the rug.

VIII.

After visiting the kitchens, com-
piling an enormous meal and de-
molishing it, I headed for the sta-
bles, where I located a handsome
young sorrel which had once be-
longed to Eric. I made friends with
him in spite of this, and a short
while later we were moving toward
the trail down Kolvir which would
take us to the camp of my Shadow
forces. As I rode and digested, I
tried to sort out the events and reve-
lations of what, to me, had been the
past few hours. If Amber had in-
deed arisen as the result of Dwor-
kin’s act of rebellion within the
Courts of Chaos, then it followed
that we were all of us related to the
very forces which now threatened
us. It was of course difficult to de-
cide how far anything Dworkin said
might now be trusted. Yet, the
black road did run to the Courts of
Chaos, apparently as a direct result of
Brand’s ritual, a thing which he had
based on principles learned from
Dworkin. Fortunately, for now, the
parts of Dworkin’s narrative which

required the greatest credulity were
those things which were not of any
great moment, from an immediate,
pragmatic standpoint. Still, I had
mixed feelings about being de-
scended from a unicorn —
“Corwin!”

I drew rein. I opened my mind to
the sending and the image of Gane-
lon appeared.

“I am here,” I said. “Where did
you get hold of a set of Trumps?
And learn how to use them?”

“I picked up a pack from the
case in the library awhile back.
Thought it a good idea to have a
way of getting in touch with you in
a hurry. As for using them, I just
did what you and the others seem to
do — study the Trump, think about
it, concentrate on getting in touch
with the person.”

“I should have gotten you a pack
long ago,” I said. “It was an over-
sight on my part which I am glad
you’ve remedied. Are you just test-
ing them now, or did something
come up?”

“Something,” he said. “Where
are you?”

“As chance would have it, I am
on my, way down to see you.”

“You are all right?”

“Yes.”

‘‘Fine. Come ahead then. I’d
rather not try bringing you through
this thing, the way you people do.
It is not that urgent. I will see you
by and by.”

“Yes.”

He broke the contact and I rustled
the reins and continued on. For a
moment, I had been irritated that he
had not simply asked me for a
deck. Then I recalled that I had
been away for over a week, by

GALAXY

Amber’s time. He had probably
been getting worried, didn’t trust
any of the others to do it for him.
Perhaps rightly so.

The descent went quickly, as did
the balance of the journey to the
camp. The horse — whose name, by
the way, was Drum — seemed happy
to be going somewhere and had a
tendency to pull away at the least
excuse. I gave him his head at one
point to tire him a bit, and it was
not too long afterwards that 1
sighted the camp. I realized at about
that time that I missed Star.

I was the subject of stares and sa-
lutes as I rode into camp. A silence
followed me and all activity ceased
as I passed. I wondered whether
they believed I had come to deliver
a battle order.

Ganelon emerged from his tent
before I had dismounted.

“Fast,” he observed, clasping
my hand as I came down. “Pretty
horse, that.”

“Yes,” I agreed, turning the
reins over to his orderly. “What
news have you?”

“Well . . .” he said. “I’ve been
talking to Benedict ...”

“Movement on the back road?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. He
came to see me after he returned
from those friends of his — the
Tecys — to tell me that Random was
all right, that he was following a
lead as to Martin’s whereabouts.
We got to talking of other matters
after that, and finally he asked me
to tell him everything I knew about
Dara. Random had told him about
her walking the Pattern, and he had
decided then that too many people
other than yourself were aware of
her existence.”

THE HAND OF OBERON

“So what did you tell him?”
“Everything.”

“Including the guesswork, the
speculation — after Tir-na Nog’th?”
“Just so.”

“I see. How did he take this?”
“He seemed excited about it.
Happy, I’d even say. Come talk
with him yourself.”

I nodded and he turned toward
his tent. He pushed back the flap
and stepped aside. 1 entered.

Benedict was seated on a low
stool beside a foot locker atop
which a map had been spread. He
was tracing something on the map
with the long metal finger of the
glinting, skeletal hand attached to
the deadly, silver-cabled, fire-
pinned mechanical arm I had
brought back from the city in the
sky, the entire device now attached
to the stump of his right arm a little
below the point where the sleeve
had been cut away from his brown
shirt, a transformation which halted
me with a momentary shudder, so
much did he resemble the ghost I
had encountered. His eyes rose to
meet my own and he raised the
hand in greeting, a casual, perfectly
executed gesture, and he smiled the
broadest smile I had ever seen
crease his face.

“Corwin!” he said, and then he
rose and extended that hand.

I had to force myself to clasp the
device which had almost killed me.
But Benedict looked more kindly
disposed toward me than he had in
a long while. I shook the new hand
and its pressures were perfect. I
tried to disregard its coldness and
angularity and almost succeeded, in
my amazement at the control he had
acquired over it.

“I owe you an apology,” he
said. ‘‘I have wronged you. I am
very sorry.”

‘‘It’s all right,” I said. ‘‘I under-
stand.”

He clasped me for a moment, and
my belief that things had apparently
been set right between us was dark-
ened only by the grip of those pre-
cise and deadly fingers on my
shoulder.

Ganelon chuckled and brought up
another stool, which he set at the
other end of the locker. My irrita-
tion at his having aired the subject I
had not wanted mentioned, what-
ever the circumstances, was sub-
merged by the sight of its effects: I
could not remember having seen
Benedict in better spirits; Ganelon
was obviously pleased at having ef-
fected the resolution of our differ-
ences.

I smiled myself and accepted a
seat, unbuckling my swordbelt and
hanging Grayswandir on the
tentpole. Ganelon produced three
glasses and a bottle of wine. As he
set the glasses before us and
poured, he remarked, ‘‘To return
the hospitality of your tent, that
night, back in Avalon.”

Benedict took up his glass with
but the faintest of clicks.

‘‘There is more ease in this
tent,” he said. ‘‘Is that not so,
Corwin?”

I nodded and raised my glass.

‘‘To that ease. May it always
prevail.”

‘‘I have had my first opportunity
in a long while,” he said, ‘‘to talk
with Random at some length. He
has changed quite a bit.”

‘‘Yes,” I agreed.

‘‘I am more inclined to trust him

now than I was in days gone by. j
We had some time to talk after we |
left the Tecys.” |

‘‘Where were you headed?” j

‘‘Some comments Martin had j
made to his host seemed to indicate j
that he was going to a place I knew 1
of further off in Shadow — the block i
city of Heerat. We journeyed there
and found this to be correct. He had
passed that way.”

“I am not familiar with Heerat,”

I said.

‘‘A place of adobe and stone — a
commercial center at the junction of
several trade routes. There, Random
found news which took him east-
ward and probably deeper into
Shadow. We parted company at
Heerat, for I did not want to be
away from Amber overlong. Also,
there was a personal matter I was
anxious to pursue. He told me how
he had seen Dara walk the Pattern
on the day of the battle.”

‘‘That’s right,” I said. ‘‘She did.

I was there, too.” ,

He nodded.

‘‘As I said. Random had im- j
pressed me. I was inclined to be- j
lieve he was telling the truth. If this \
were so, then it was possible that >
you were also. Granting this, I had j
to pursue the matter of the girl’s al- s
legations. You were not available, j
so I came to Ganelon — this was j
several days ago — and had him tell j
me everything he knew about ]
Dara.”

I glanced at Ganelon, who in- J
dined his head slightly. j

‘‘So you now believe you have 1
uncovered a new relative,” I said, j
‘‘a mendacious one, to be sure, and J
quite possibly an enemy — but a rel- |
ative, nevertheless. What next?” 1

GALAXY

He took a sip of wine.

“I would like to believe in the re-
lationship,” he said. “The notion
somehow pleases me. So I would
like to establish it or negate it to a
certainty. If it turns out that we are
indeed related, then I would like to
understand the motives behind her
actions. And I would like to learn
why she never made her existence
known to me directly.” He put
down his glass, raised his new hand
and flexed the fingers. “So I would
like to begin,” he continued, “by
learning of those things ycxi experi-
enced in Tir-na Nog’th which apply
to me and to Dara. I am also ex-
tremely curious about this hand,
which behaves as if it were made
for me. I have never heard of a
physical object being obtained in
the city in the sky.” He made a
fist, unclenched it, rotated the wrist,
extended the arm, raised it, lowered
it gently to his knee. “Random per-
formed a very effective piece of
surgery, don’t you think?” he con-
cluded.

“Very,” I agreed.

“So, will you tell me the story?”

I nodded and took a sip of my
wine.

“It was in the palace in the sky
that it occurred,” I said. “The
place was filled with inky, shifting
shadows. I felt impelled to visit the
throne room. I did this, and when
the shadows moved aside, I saw
you standing to the right of the
throne, wearing that arm. When
things cleared further, I saw Dara
seated upon the throne. I advanced
and touched her with Grayswandir,
which made me visible to her. She
declared me dead these several cen-
turies and bade me return to my

THE HAND OF OBERON

grave. When I demanded her
lineage, she said she was descended
of you and of the hellmaid Lintra.

Benedict drew a deep breath but
said nothing. I continued;

“Time, she said, moved at such
a different rate in the place of her
birth, that several generations had
passed there. She was the first of
them possessed of regular human at-
tributes. She again bade me depart.
During this time, you had been
studying Grayswandir. You struck
then to remove her from danger,
and we fought. My blade could
reach you and your hand could
reach me. That was all. Otherwise,
it was a confrontation of ghosts. As
the sun began to rise and the city to
fade, you had me in a grip with that
hand. I struck it free of the arm
with Grayswandir and escaped. It
was returned with me because it
was still clasping my shoulder.”

“Curious,” Benedict said. “I
have known that place to render
false prophecies — the fears and hid-
den desires of the visitor, rather
than a true picture of what is to be.
But then, it often reveals unknown
truths as well. And as in most other
things, it is difficult to separate the
valid from the spurious. How did
you read it?”

“Benedict,” I said, “I am in-
clined to believe the story of her
origin. You have never seen her,
but I have. She does resemble you
in some ways. As for the rest
. . .It is doubtless as you said —
that which is left after the truth has
been separated out.”

He nodded slowly, and I could
tell that he was not convinced but
did not want to push the matter. He
knew as well as I did what the rest

implied. If he were to pursue his
claim to the throne and succeed in
achieving it, it was possible that he
might one day step aside in favor of
his only descendant.

“What are you going to do?” 1
asked him.

“Do?” he said. “What is Ran-
dom now doing about Martin? I
shall seek her, find her, have the
story from her own lips and then
decide for myself. This will have to
wait, however, until the matter of
the black road is settled. That is
another matter I wish to discuss
with you.”

“Yes?”

“If time moves so differently in
their stronghold, they have had
more than they need in which to
mount another attack. I do not want
to keep waiting to meet them in in-
decisive encounters. I am con-
templating following the black road
back to its source and attacking
them on their home ground. I would
like to do it with your concurr-
ence.”

“Benedict,” I said, “have you
ever looked upon the Courts of
Chaos?”

He raised his head and stared at
the blank wall of the tent.

“Ages ago, when I was young,”
he said, “I hellrode as far as I
might go, to the end of everything.
There, beneath a divided sky, I
looked upon an awesome abyss. I
do not know if the place lies there
or if the road runs that far, but I am
prepared to take that way again, if
such is the case.”

“Such is the case,” I said.

“How can you be certain?”

“I am just returned from that
land. A dark citadel hovers within

it. The road goes to it.”

“How difficult was the way?”
“Here,” I said, taking out the
Trump and passing it to him. “This
was Dworkin’s. I found it among
his things. I only just tried it. It
took me there. Time is already
rapid at that point. I was attacked
by a rider on a drifting roadway, of
a sort not shown on the card.
Trump contact is difficult there,
perhaps because of the time differ-
ential. Gerard brought me back.”

He studied the card.

“It seems the place I saw that
time,” he said at length. “This
solves our logistics problems. With
one of us on either end of a Trump
connection we can transport the
troops right through, as we did that
day from Kolvir to Gamath.”

I nodded.

“That is one of the reasons I
showed it to you, to indicate my
good faith. There may be another
way, involving less risk than run-
ning our forces into the unknown. I
want you to hold off on this venture
until I have explored my way fur-
ther.”

“I will have to hold off in any
event, to obtain some intelligence
concerning that place. We do not
even know whether your automatic
weapons will function there, do
we?”

“No, I did not have one along to
test.”

He pursed his lips.

“You really should have thought
to take one and test it.”

“The circumstances of my depar-
ture did not permit this.”
“Circumstances?”

“Another time. It is not relevant
here. You spoke of following the

GALAXY

black road to its source ...”
“Yes?”

“That is not its true source. Its
real source lies in the true Amber,
in the defect in the primal Pattern.”
“Yes, I understand that. Both
Random and Ganelon have de-
scribed your journey to the place of
the true Pattern, and the damage
you discovered there. I see the
analogy, the possible connection — ”
‘‘Do you recall my flight from
Avalon, and your pursuit?”

In answer, he only smiled faintly.
‘‘There was a point where we
crossed the black road,” I said.
‘‘Do you recall it?”

He narrowed his yes.

“Yes,” he said. ‘‘You cut a path
through it. The world had returned
to normal at that point. I had forgot-
ten.”

‘‘It was an effect of the Pattern
upon it,” I said, ‘‘One which I be-
lieve can be employed upon a much
larger scale.”

‘‘How much larger?”

‘‘To wipe out the entire thing.”
He leaned back and studied my
face.

‘‘Then why are you not about
it?”

‘‘There are a few preliminaries I
must undertake.”

‘‘How much time will they in-
volve?”

‘‘Not too much. Possibly as little
as a few days. Perhaps a few
weeks.”

‘‘Why didn’t you mention all of
this sooner?”

‘‘I only learned how to go about
it recently.”

‘‘How do you go about it?”
‘‘Basically, it amounts to repair-
ing the Pattern.”

the hand of OBERON

‘‘All right,” he said. ‘‘Say you
succeed. The enemy will still be out
there.” He gestured toward Garnath
and the black road. ‘‘Someone gave
them passage once.”

‘‘The enemy has always been out
there,” I said. ‘‘And it will be up
to us to see that they are not given
passage again — by dealing properly
with those who provided it in the
first place.”

‘‘I go along with you on that,”
he saicj, ‘‘but that is not what I
meant They require a lesson, Cor-
win. I want to teach them a proper
respect for Amber, such a respect
that even if the way is opened again
they will fear to use it. That is what
I meant. It is necessary.”

‘‘You do not know what it would
be like to carry a battle to that
place, Benedict. It is — literally —
indescribable.”

He smiled and stood.

‘‘Then I guess I had best go see
for myself,” he said. “I will keep
this card for a time, if you don’t
mind.”

‘‘I don’t mind.”

‘‘Good. Then you be on with
your business about the Pattern,
Corwin, and I will be about my
own. This will take me some time,
too. I must go give my commanders
orders concerning my absence now.
Let us agree that neither of us
commence anything of a final na-
ture without checking first with the
other.”

“Agreed,” I said.

We finished our wine.

“I will be underway myself, very
soon now,” I said. ‘‘So, good
luck.”

“To you, also.” He smiled
again. “Things are better,” he said,

and he clasped my shoulder as he
passed to the entrance.

We followed him outside.

“Bring Benedict’s horse,” Gane-
lon directed the orderly who stood
beneath a nearby tree; and turning,
he offered Benedict his hand, “I,
too, want to wish you luck,” he
said.

Benedict nodded and shook his
hand.

“Thank you, Ganelon. For many
things.”

Benedict withdrew his Trumps.

“I can bring Gerard up to date,”
he said, “before my horse arrives.”
He riffled through them, with-
drew one, studied it,

“How do you go about repairing
the Pattern?” Ganelon asked me.

“I have to get hold of the Jewel
of Judgment again,” I said. “With
it, I can reinscribe the damaged
area.”

“Is this dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the Jewel?”

“Back on the shadow Earth,
where I left it.”

“Why did you abandon it?”

“I feared that it was killing me.”
He contorted his features into a
near-impossible grimace.

“I don’t like the sound of this,
Corwin. There must be another
way.”

“If I knew a better way. I’d take
it.’ ’

“Supposing you just followed
Benedict’s plan and took them all
on? You said yourself that he could
raise infinite legions in Shadow.
You also said that he is the best
man there is in the field.”

“Yet the damage would remain
in the Pattern, and something else

would come to fill it. Always. The
enemy of the moment is not as im-
portant as our own inner weakness.
If this is not mended we are already
defeated, though no foreign con-
queror stands within our walls.”

He turned away.

“I cannot argue with you. You
know your own realm,” he said.
“But I still feel you may be making
a grave mistake by risking yourself
on what may prove unnecessary at a
time when you are very much
needed.”

I chuckled, for it was Vialle’s
word and I had not wanted to call it
my own when she had said it.

“It is my duty,” I told him.

He did not reply.

Benedict, a dozen paces away,
had apparently reached Gerard, for
he would mutter something, then
pause and listen. We stood there,
waiting for him to conclude his
conversation so that we could see
him off.

“. . . . Yes, he is here now,” I
heard him say. “No, I doubt that
very much. But — ”

Benedict glanced at me several
times and shook his head.

“No, I do not think so,” he said.
Then, “All right, come ahead.”

He extended his new hand, and
Gerard stepped into being, clasping
it. Gerard turned his head, saw me
and immedaitely moved in my di-
rection.

He ran his eyes up and down and
back and forth across my entire per-
son, as if searching for something.

“What is the matter?” I said.

“Brand,” he replied, “he is no
longer in his quarters. At least,
most of him isn’t. He left a lot of
blood behind. The place is also

GALAXY

broken up enough to show there had
been a fight.”

I glanced down at my shirtfront
and trousers.

“And you are looking for blood-
stains? As you can see, these are the
same things I had on earlier. They
may be dirty and wrinkled but that’s
all.”

“That does not really prove any-
thing,” he said.

“It was your idea to look. Not
mine. What makes you think I — ”

“You were the last one to see
him,” he said.

“Except for the person he had a
fight with — if he really did.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know his temper, his
moods. We had a small argument.
He might have started breaking
things up after I left, maybe cut
himself, gotten disgusted, trumped
out for a change of scene. — Wait!
His rug! Was there any blood on
that small, fancy rug before his
door?”

“I am not sure. — No, I don’t
think so. Why?”

“Circumstantial evidence that he
did it himself. He was very fond of
that rug. He avoided messing it.”

“I don’t buy it,” Gerard said,
“and Caine’s death still looks
peculiar — and Benedict’s servants
who could have found out you
wanted gunpowder. Now Brand — ”

“This could well be another at-
tempt to frame me,” I said, “and
Benedict and I have come to better
terms.”

He turned toward Benedict, who
had not moved from where he stood
a dozen paces away, regarding us
without expression, listening.

“Has he explained away those

THE HAND OF OBERON

deaths?” Gerard asked him.

“Not directly,’’ Benedict an-
swered, “but much of the rest of
the story now stands in a better
light. So much so, that I am in-
clined to believe the best.”

Gerard shook his head and glared
down at me again.

“Still unsettled,” he said. “What
were you and Brand arguing
about?”

“Gerard,” I said, “that is our
business, till Brand and I decide
otherwise.”

“I dragged him back to life and
watched over him, Corwin. I didn’t
do it just to see him killed in a
squabble.”

“Use your brains,” I told him.
“Whose idea was it to search for
him the way that we did? To bring
him back?”

“You wanted something from
him,” he said. “You finally got it.
Then he became an impediment.”

“No. But even if that were the
case, do you think I would be so
damned obvious about it? If he has
been killed, then it is on the same
order as Caine’s death — an attempt
to frame me.”

“You used the obviousness ex-
cuse with Caine, too. It seems to
me it could be a kind of subtlety — a
thing you are good at.”

“We have been through this be-
fore, Gerard ...”

“. . . . And you know what I
told you then.”

“It would be difficult to have
forgotten.”

He reached forward and seized
my right shoulder. I immediately
drove my left hand into his stomach
and pulled away. It occurred to me
then that perhaps I should have told

him what Brand and I had been
talking about. But I didn’t like the
way he had asked me.

He came at me again. I sidestep-
ped and caught him with a light left
near the right eye. I kept jabbing
after that, mainly to keep his head
back. I was in no real shape to fight
him again, and Grayswandir was
back in the tent. I had no other
weapon with me.

I kept circling him. My side hurt
if I kicked with my left leg. I
caught him once on the thigh with
my right, but I was slow and off-
balance and could not really follow
through. I continued to jab.

Finally, he blocked my left and
managed to drop his hand on my
biceps. I should have pulled away
then, but he was open. I stepped in
with a heavy right to his stomach,
all of my strength behind it. It bent
him forward with a gasp, but his
grip tightened on my arm. He
blocked my attempted uppercut with
his left, continuing its forward mo-
tion until the heel of his hand
slammed against my chest, at the
same time jerking my left arm
backwards and to the side with such
force that I was thrown to the
ground. If he came down on me,
that was it.

He dropped to one knee and
reached for my throat.

IX.

I moved to block his hand, but it
halted in mid-reach. Turning my
head, I saw that another hand had
fallen upon Gerard’s arm, was now
grasping it, was holding it back.

I rolled away. When I looked up
again, I saw that Ganelon had
caught hold of him. Gerard jerked
his arm forward, but it did not
come free.

‘‘Stay out of this, Ganelon,” he
said.

‘‘Get going, Corwin!” Ganelon
said. ‘‘Get the Jewel!”

Even as he called out, Gerard
was beginning to rise. Ganelon
crossed with his left and connected
with Gerard’s jaw. Gerard sprawled
at his feet. Ganelon moved in and
swung a kick toward his kidney, but
Geard caught his foot and heaved
him over backwards. I scrambled
back into a crouch, supporting my-
self with one hand.

Gerard came up off the ground
and rushed Ganelon, who was just
recovering his feet. As he was al-
most upon him, Ganelon came up
with a double-fisted blow to
Gerard’s midsection which halted
him in his tracks. Instantly, Gane-
lon’s fists were moving like pistons
against Gerard’s abdomen. For sev-
eral moments, Gerard seemed too
dazed to protect himself, and when
he finally bent and brought his arms
in, Ganelon caught him with a right
to the jaw tliat staggered him back-
wards. Ganelon immediately rushed
forward, throwing his arms about
Gerard as he slammed into him and
hooking his right leg behind
Gerard’s own. Gerard toppled and
Ganelon fell upon him. He strad-
dled Gerard then and drove his right
fist against his jaw. When Gerard’s
head rolled back, he crossed with
his left.

Benedict suddenly moved to
intervene, but Ganelon chose that
moment to rise to his feet. Gerard

GALAXY

lay unconscious, bleeding from his
niouth and nose.

I got shakily to my own feet,
dusted myself off.

Ganelon grinned at me.

“Don’t stay around,” he said. “I
don’t know how I would do in a
rematch. Go find the trinket.”

I glanced at Benedict and he
nodded. I returned to the tent for
Grayswandir. When I emerged,
Gerard still had not moved, but Be-
nedict stood before me.

“Remember,” he said, “you’ve
my Trump and I’ve yours. Nothing
final without a conference.”

I nodded. I was going to ask him
why he had seemed willing to help
Gerard, biit not me. But second
thoughts had me and I decided
against spoiling our fresh-minted
amity.

“Okay.”

I headed toward the horses.
Ganelon clapped me on the shoulder
as I came up to him.

“Good luck,” he said. “I’d go
with you, but I am needed here —
especially with Benedict trumping
off to Chaos.”

“Good show,” I said. “I
shouldn’t have any trouble. Don’t
worry.”

I went off to the paddock.
Shortly, I was mounted and mov-
ing. Ganelon threw me a salute as I
passed and I returned it. Benedict
was kneeling beside Gerard.

I headed for the nearest trail into
Arden. The sea lay at my back,
Garnath and the black road to the
left, Kolvir to my right. I had to
gain some distance before I could
work with the stuff of Shadow. The
day lay clean once Garnath was lost
to sight, several rises and dips later.

the hand of oberon

I struck the trail and followed its
long curve into the wood, where
moist shadows and distant birdsongs
reminded me of the long periods of
peace we had known of old and the
silken, gleaming presence of the
maternal unicorn.

My aches faded into the rhythm
of the ride, and I thought once
again of the encounter I had de-
parted. It was not difficult to under-
stand Gerard’s attitude, since he had
already told me of his suspicions
and issued me a warning. Still, it
was such bad timing for whatever
had happened with Brand that I
could not but see it as another ac-
tion intended either to slow me or
to stop me entirely. It was fortunate
that Ganelon had been on hand, in
good shape and able to put his fists
in the right places at the proper
times. I wondered what Benedict
would have done if there had only
been the three of us present. I’d a
feeling he would have waited and
intervened only at the very last
moment, to stop Gerard from killing
me. I was still not happy with our
accord, though it was certainly an
improvement over the previous state
of affairs.

All of which made me wonder
again what had become of Brand.
Had Fiona or Bleys finally gotten to
him? Had he attempted his proposed
assassinations singlehanded and
been met with a counterthrust, then
dragged through his intended vic-
tim’s Trump? Had his old allies
from the Courts of Chaos somehow
gotten through to him? Had one of
his horny handed guardians from
the Tower finally been able to reach
him? Or had it been as I had
suggested to Gerard — an accidental

self-injury in a fit of rage, followed
by an ill-tempered flight from
Amber to do his brooding and plot-
ting elsewhere?

When that many questions arise
from a single event the answer is
seldom obtainable by pure logic. I
had to sort out the possibilities
though, to have something to reach
for when more facts did turn up. In
the meantime, I thought carefully
over everything he had told me, re-
garding his allegations in light of
those things which I now knew.
With one exception, I did not doubt
most of the facts. He had built too
cleverly to have the edifice simply
toppled — but then, he had had a lot
of time to think these things over.
No, it was in his manner of present-
ing events that something had been
hidden by misdirection. His recent
proposal practically assured me of
that.

The old trail twisted, widened,
narrowed again, swung to the
northwest and downward, into the
thickening wood. The forest had
changed very little. It seemed al-
most the same trail a young man
had ridden centuries before, riding
for the sheer pleasure of it, riding to
explore that vast green realm which
extended over most of the conti-
nent, if he did not stray into
Shadow. It would be good to be
doing it again for no reason other
than this.

After perhaps an hour, I had
worked my way well back into the
forest, where the trees were great
dark towers, what sunlight I glimpsed
caught like phoenix nests in
their highest branches, an always
moist, twilight softness smoothing
the outlines of stumps and boles.

logs and mossy rocks. A deer
bounded across my path, not trust-
ing to the excellent concealment of
a thicket at the right of the trail.
Birdnotes sounded about me, never
too near. Occasionally, I crossed the
tracks of other horsemen. Some of
these were quite fresh, but they did
not stay long with the trail. Kolvir
was well out of sight, had been for
some time.

The trail rose again, and I knew
that I would shortly reach the top of
a small ridge, pass among rocks and
head downward once more. The
trees thinned somewhat as we
climbed, until finally I was afforded
a partial view of the sky. It was en-
larged as I continued, and when I
came to the summit I heard the dis-
tant cry of a hunting bird.

Glancing upward, I saw a great
dark shape, circling and circling,
high above me. I hurried past the
boulders and shook the reins for a
burst of speed as soon as the way
was clear. We plunged downward,
racing to get under cover of the
larger trees once again.

The bird cried out as we did this,
but we won to the shade, to the
dimness, without incident. I slowed
gradually after that and continued to
listen, but there were no untoward
sounds on the air. This part of the
forest was pretty much the same as
that we had left beyond the ridge,
save for a small stream we picked
up and paralleled for a time, finally
crossing it at a shallow ford. Be-
yond, the trail widened and a little
more light leaked through and
flowed with us for half a league.
We had almost come a sufficient
distance for me to begin those small
manipulations of Shadow which

GALAXY

would bear me to the pathway back
to the shadow Earth of my former
exile. Yet, it would be difficult to
begin here, easier farther along. I
resolved to save the strain on my-
self and my mount by continuing to
a better beginning. Nothing of a
threatening nature had really occur-
red. The bird could be a wild
hunter, probably was.

Only one thought nagged at me
as I rode.

Julian . . .

Arden was Julian’s preserve, pa-
trolled by his rangers, sheltering
several encampments of his troops at
all times — Amber’s inland border
guard, both against incursions natu-
ral and against those things which
might appear at the boundaries of
Shadow.

Where did Julian go when he had
departed the palace so suddenly on
the night of Brand’s stabbing? If he
wished simply to hide, there was no
necessity for him to flee farther than
this. Here he was strong, backed by
his own men, moving in a realm he
knew far better than the rest of us.
It was quite possible that he was not
right now, too far away. Also, he
liked to hunt. He had his hell-
hounds, he had his birds . . .

A half mile, a mile ...

Just then, I heard the sound that I
feared most. Piercing the green and
the shade, there came the notes of a
hunting horn. They came from
some distance behind me, and I
think from the left of the trail.

I urged my mount to a gallop and
the trees rushed to a blur on, either
side. The trail was straight and level
here. We took advantage of this.

Then from behind, I heard a
roar — a kind of deep-chested cough-

the hand of oberon

ing, growling sound backed by a lot
of resonant lung space. I did not
know what it was that had uttered
it, but it was no dog. Not even a
hellhound sounded like that. I
glanced back, but there was no pur-
suit in sight. So I kept low and
talked to Drum a bit.

After a time, I heard a crashing
noise in the woods off to my right,
but the roar was not repeated just
then. I looked again, several times,
but I was unable to make out what
it was that was causing the distur-
bance. Shortly thereafter, I heard
the horn once more, much nearer,
and this time it was answered by
the barks and the baying which I
could not mistake. The hellhounds
were coming — swift, powerful, vic-
ious beasts Julian had found . in
some shadow and trained to the
hunt.

It was time, I decided, to begin
the shift. Amber was still strong
about me, but I laid hold of Shadow
as best I could and started the
movement.

The trail began to curve to the
left, and as we raced along it the
trees at either hand diminished in
size, fell back. Another curve, and
the trail led us through a clearing,
perhaps a hundred meters across. I
glanced up then and saw that that
damned bird was still circling,
much nearer now, close enough to
be dragged with me through
Shadow.

This was more complicated that I
had intended. I wanted an open
space in which to wheel my mount
and swing a blade freely if it came
to that.. The occurrence of such a
place, however, revealed my posi-
tion quite clearly to the bird, whom

it was proving difficult to lose.

All right. We came to a low hill,
mounted it, started downward, pass-
ing a lone, lightning-blasted tree as
we did. On its nearest branch sat a
hawk of gray and silver and black. I
whistled to it as we passed, and it
leapt into the air, shrieking a savage
battle cry.

Hurrying on, I heard the indi-
vidual voices of the dogs, clearly
now, and the thud of the horses’
hoofs. Mixed in with these sounds
there was something else, more a
vibration, a shuddering of the
ground. I looked back again, but
none of my pursuit had yet topped
the hill. I bent my mind toward the
way away and clouds occluded the
sun. Strange flowers appeared along
the trail — green and yellow and
purple — and there came a rumble of
distant thunders. The clearing widen-
ed, lengthened. It became com-
pletely level.

I heard once again the sound of
the horn. I turned for another look.

It bounded into view then, and I
realized at that instant that I was not
the object of the hunt, that the rid-
ers, the dogs, the bird were pursu-
ing the thing that ran behind me. Of
course, this was a rather academic
distinction, in that I was in front,
and quite possibly the object of its
hunt. I leaned forward, shouting to
Drum and digging in with my knees,
realizing even as I did that the
abomination was moving faster than
we could. It was a panic reaction.

I was being pursued by a manti-
cora.

The last time I had seen its like
was on the day before the battle in
which Eric died. As I had led my
troops up the rearward slopes of

Kolvir, it had appeared to tear a
man named Rail in half. We had
dispatched it with automatic
weapons. The thing proved twelve
feet in length, and like this one it
had worn a human face on the head
and shoulders of a lion; it, too, had
had a pair of eagle-like wings
folded against its sides and the long
pointed tail of a scorpion curving in
the air above it. A number of them
had somehow wandered in from
Shadow to devil our steps as we
headed for that battle. There was no
reason to believe all of them had
been accounted for, save that none
had been reported since that time
and no evidence of their continued
existence in the vicinity of Amber
had come to light. Apparently, this
one had wandered down into Arden
and been living in the forest since
that time.

A final glance showed me that I
might be pulled down in moments if
I did not make a stand. It also
showed me a dark avalanche of
dogs rushing down the hill.

I did not know the intelligence or
psychology of the manticora. Most
fleeing beasts will not stop to attack
something which is not bothering
them. Self-preservation is generally
foremost in their minds. On the
other hand, I was not certain that
the manticora even realized that it
was being pursued. It might have
started out on my trail and only had
its own picked up afterwards. It
might have only the one thing on its
mind. It was hardly a time to pause
and reflect on all the possibilities.

I drew Grayswandir and turned
my mount to the left, pulling back
on the reins immediately as he
made the turn.

GALAXY

Drum screamed and rose high
onto his hind legs. I felt myself
sliding backwards, so I jumped to
the ground and leaped to the side.

But I had, for the moment, for-
gotten the speed of the storm-
hounds, had also forgotten how eas-
ily they had once overtaken Ran-
dom and myself in Flora’s Mer-
cedes, had also forgotten that unlike
ordinary dogs chasing cars, they
had begun tearing the vehicle apart.

Suddenly, they were all over the
manticora, a dozen or more dogs,
leaping and biting. The beast threw
back its head and uttered another
cry as they struck at it. It swept that
vicious tail through them, sending
one flying, stunning or killing two
others. It reared then and turned,
striking out with its forelegs as it
descended.

But even as it did this, a hound
attached itself to its left foreleg, two
more were at its haunches and one
had scrambled onto its back, biting
at its shoulder and neck. The others
were circling it now. As soon as it
would go after one, the others
would dart in and slash at it.

It finally caught the one on its
back with its scorpion sting and dis-
embowled the one gnawing at its
leg. However, it was running blood
from a double dozen wounds by
then. Shortly, it became apparent that
the leg was giving it trouble, both
for striking purposes and for bearing
its weight when it struck with the
others. In the meantime, another
dog had mounted its back and was
tearing at its neck. It seemed to be
having a more difficult time getting
at this one. Another came in from
its right and shredded its ear. Two
more plied its haunches, and when

the hand of oberon

it reared again one rushed in and
tore at its belly. Their barks and
growls also seemed to be confusing
it somewhat, and it began striking
wildly at the ever-moving gray
shapes.

I had caught hold of Drum’s bri-
dle and was trying to calm him suf-
ficiently to remount and get the hell
out of there. He kept trying to rear
and pull away, and it took consider-
able persuasion even to hold him in
place.

In the meantime, the manticora
let out a bitter, wailing cry. It had
struck wildly at the dog on its back
and driven its sting into its own
shoulder. The dogs took advantage
of this distraction and rushed in
wherever there was an opening,
snapping and tearing.

I am certain the dogs would have
finished it, but at that moment the
riders topped the hill and de-
scended. There were five of them,
Julian in the lead. He had on his
scaled white armor and his hunting
horn hung about his neck. He rode
his gigantic steed Morgenstern, a
beast which has always hated me.
He raised the long lance that he
bore and saluted with it in my direc-
tion. Then he lowered it and
shouted orders to the dogs. Grudg-
ingly, they dropped away from the
prey. Even the doj on the manti-
cora’s back loosened its grip and
leaped to the ground. All of them
drew back as Julian couched the
lance and touched his spurs to
Morgenstern’s sides.

The beast turned toward him,
gave a final cry of defiance and
leapt ahead, fangs bared. .They
came together, and for a moment
my view was blocked by Morgen-

stern’s shoulder. Another moment,
however, and I knew from the
horse’s behavior that the blow had
been a true one.

A turning, and I saw the beast
stretched out, great gouts of blood
upon its breast, flowering about the
dark stem of the lance.

Julian dismounted. He said some-
thing to the other riders which I did
not overhear. They remained
mounted. He regarded the still-
twitching manticora, then looked at
me and smiled. He crossed and
placed his foot upon the beast,
seized the lance with one hand and
wrenched it from the carcass. Then
he drove it into the ground and
tethered Morgenstern to its shaft.
He reached up and patted the
horse’s shoulder, looked back at
me, turned and headed in my direc-
tion.

When he came up before me he
said, “I wish you hadn’t killed
Bela.”

“Bela?” I repeated.

He glanced at the sky. I followed
his gaze. Neither bird was not in
sight.

“He was one of my favorites.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “I misun-
derstood what was going on.”

He nodded.

“All right. I’ve done something
for you. Now you can tell me what
happened after I left the palace.
Did Brand make it?”

“Yes,” I said, “and you’re off
the hook on that. He claimed Fiona
slabbed him. And she was not
around to question either. She de-
parted during the night, also. It’s
a wonder you didn’t bump into one
another.”

He smiled.

GALAXY

“I’d have guessed as much,” he

said.

“Why did you flee under such
suspicious circumstances?” I asked.
“It made it look bad for you.”

He shrugged.

“It would not be the first time
I’ve been falsely accused, sus-
pected. And for that matter, if in-
tent counts for anything, I am as
guilty as our little sister. I’d have
done it myself if I could. In fact.
I’d a blade ready the night we
fetched him back. Only, I was
crowded aside.”

“But why?” I asked.

He laughed.

“Why? I am afraid of the bas-
tard, that’s why. For a long while, I
had thought he was dead, and cer-
tainly hoped so — finally claimed by
the ^rk powers he dealt with. How
much do you really know about
him, Corwin?”

“We had a long talk.”

“And. . .. ?”

“He admitted that he and Bleys
and Fiona had formed a plan to
claim the throne. They would see
Bleys crowned, but each would
share the real power. They had used
the forces you referred to, to assure
Dad’s absence. Brand said that he
had attempted to win Caine to their
cause, but that Caine had instead
gone to you and to Eric. The three
of you then formed a similar trium-
virate to seize power before they
could, by placing Eric on the
throne.”

He nodded.

“The events are in order, but the
reason is not. We did not want the
throne, at least not that abruptly,
nor at that time. We formed our
group to oppose their group, be-

the hand of OBERON

cause it had to be opposed to pro-
tect the throne. At first, the most
we could persuade Eric to do was to
assume a Protectorship. He was
afraid he would quickly turn up
dead if he saw himself crowned
under those conditions. Then you
turned up, with your very legitimate
claim. We could not afford to let
you press it at that time, because
Brand’s crowd was threatening
out-and-out war. We felt they
would be less inclined to make this
move if the throne were already oc-
cupied. We could not have seated
you, because you would have re-
fused to be a puppet, a role you
would have had to play since the
game was already in progress and
you were ignorant on too many
fronts. So we persuaded Eric to take
the risk and be crowned. That was
how it happened.”

“So when I did arrive he put out
my eyes and threw me in the dun-
geon just for laughs.”

Julian turned away and looked
back at the dead manticora.

“You are a fool,” he finally
said. “You were a tool from the
very beginning. They used you to
force our hand, and either way you
lost. If that half-assed attack of
Bleys’ had somehow succeeded,
you wouldn’t have lasted long
enough to draw a deep breath. If it
failed, as it did, Bleys disappeared,
as he did, leaving you with your
life forfeit for attempted usurpation.
You had served your purpose and
you had to die. They left us small
choice in the matter. By rights, we
should have killed you — and you
know it.”

I bit my lip. There were many
things I might say. But if he was

telling something approximating the
truth, he did have a point. And I
did want to hear more.

“Eric,” he said, “figured that
your eyesight might eventually be
restored — knowing the way we
regenerate — given time. It was a
very delicate situation. If Dad were
to return, Eric could step down and
justify all of his actions to anyone’s
satisfaction — except for killing you.
That would have been tpo patent a
move to insure his own continued
reign beyond the troubles of the
moment. And I will tell you frankly
that he simply wanted to imprison
you and forget you.”

“Then whose idea was the blind-
ing?”

He was silent again for a long
while. Then he spoke very softly,
almost a whisper: “Hear me out,
please. It was mine, and it may
have saved your life. Any action
taken against you had to be tan-
tamount to death, or their faction
would have tried for the real thing.
You were no longer of any use to
them, but alive and about you pos-
sessed the potentiality of becoming
a danger at some future time. They
could have used your Trump to con-
tact you and kill you, or they could
have used it to free you in order to
sacrifice you in yet another move
against Eric. Blinded, however,
there was no need to slay you and
you were of no use- for anything
else they might have in mind. It
saved you by taking you out of the
picture for a time, and it saved us
from a more egregious act which
might one day be held against us.
As we saw it, there was no choice.
It was the only thing we could do.
There could be no show of leniency

either, or we might be suspected of
having some use for you ourselves.
The moment you assumed any such
semblance of value you would have
been a dead man. The most we
could do was look the other way
whenever Lord Rein contrived to
comfort you. That was all that
could be done.”

“I see,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed, “you saw too
soon. No one had guessed you-
would recover your sight that quick-
ly, nor that you would be able to
escape once you did. How did you
manage it?”

“Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s?” I
said.

“Beg pardon?”

“I said, nevermind. What do you
know of Brand’s imprisonment,
then?”

He regarded me once more.

“All I know is that there was
some sort of falling out within his
group. I lack the particulars. For
some reason, Bleys and Fiona were
afraid to kill him and afraid to let
him run loose. When we freed him
from their compromise —
imprisonment— Fiona was appa-
rently more afraid of having him'
free.”

“And you said you feared him
enough to have made ready to kill
him. Why now, after all this time,
when all of this is history and the
power has shifted again? He was
weak, virtually helpless. What harm
could he do now?”

He sighed.

“I do not understand the power
that he possesses,” he said, “but it is
considerable. I know that he can
travel through Shadow with his
mind, that he can sit in a chair, lo-

GALAXY

cate what he seeks in Shadow and
then bring it to him by an act of
will without moving from the chair;
and he can travel through Shadow
physically in a somewhat similar
fashion. He lays his mind upon the
place he would visit, forms a kind
of mental doorway and simply steps
through. For that matter, I believe
he can sometimes tell what people
are thinking. It is almost as if he
has himself become some sort of
living Trump. I know these things
because I have seen hin do them.
Near the end, when wo had him
under surveillance in the palace he
had eluded us once in this fashion.
This was the time he traveled to the
shadow Earth and had you placed in
Bedlam. After his recapture, one of
us remained with him at all times.
We did not yet know that he could
summon things through Shadow,
however. When he became aware
that you had escaped your confine-
ment, he summoned a horrid beast
which attacked Caine, who was
then his bodyguard. Then he went
to you once again. Bleys and Fiona
apparently got hold of him shortly
after that, before we could, and I
did not see him again until that
night in the library when we
brought him back. I fear him be-
cause he has deadly powers which I
do not understand.”

“In such a case, I wonder how
they managed to confine him at
all?”

“Fiona has similar strengths, and
I believe Bleys did also. Between
the two of them, they could appar-
ently annul most of Brand’s power
while they created a place where it
Would be inoperative.”

“Not totally,” I said. “He got a

The hand of oberon

message to Random. In fact, he
reached me once, weakly.”

“Obviously not totally, then,” he
said. “Sufficiently, however. Until
we broke through the defenses.”
“What do you know of all their
by-play with me — confining me,
trying to kill me, saving me.”

“That I do not understand,” he
said, “except that it was part of the
power struggle within their own
group. They had had a falling out
amongst themselves, and one side
or the other had some use for you.
So, naturally, one side was trying to
kill you while the other fought to
preserve you. Ultimately, of course,
Bleys got the most mileage out of
you, in that attack he launched.”
“But he was the one who tried to
kill me, back on Earth,” I said.
“He was the one who shot out my
tires.”

“Oh?”

“Well, that is what Brand told
me, but it jibes with all sorts of
secondary evidence.”

He shrugged.

“I cannot help you on that,” he
said. “I simply do not know what
was going on among them at that
time.”

“Yet you countenance Fiona in
Amber,” I said. “In fact, you are
more than a little cordial to her
whenever she is about.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling.
“I have always been very fond of
Fiona. She is certainly the loveliest,
most civilized of us all. Pity Dad
was always so dead-set against
brother-sister marriages, as well you
know. It bothered me that we had
to be adversaries for so long as we
were. Things returned pretty much
to normal after Bleys’ death, your

imprisonment and Eric’s coronation,
though. She accepted their defeat
gracefully, and that was that. She
was obviously as frightened at the
prospect of Brand’s return as I
was.”

‘‘Brand told things differently,” I
said, ‘‘but then of course he would.
For one thing, he claims that Bleys
is still living, that he hunted him
down with his Trump and knows
that he is off in Shadow, training
another force for another strike at
Amber.”

‘‘I suppose this is possible,” Jul-
ian said. ‘‘But we are more than
adequately prepared, are we not?”

‘‘He claims further that the strike
will be a feint,” 1 continued, ‘‘and
that the real attack will then come
direct from the Courts of Chaos,
over the black road. He says that
Fiona is off preparing the way for
this right now.”

He scowled.

“I hope he was simply lying,”
he said. ‘‘I would hate to see their
group resurrected and at us again,
this time with help from the dark
direction. And I would hate to see
Fiona involved.”

‘‘Brand claimed he was out of it
himself, that he had seen the error
of his ways — and suchlike penitent
noises.”

‘‘Ha! I’d sooner trust that beast 1
just slew than take Brand at his
word. I hope you’ve had the sense
to keep him well-guarded — though
this might not be of much avail if
he has his old powers back.”

“But what game could he be
playing now?”

‘‘Either he has revived the old
triumvirate, a thought I like not at
all, or he has a new plan all his

own. But mark me, he has a plan.
He has never been satisfied to be a
mere spectator at anything. He is
always scheming. I’d take an oath
,he even plots in his sleep.”

‘‘Perhaps you are right,” I said.
“You see, there has been a new
development, whether for good or
ill, I cannot yet tell. I Just had a
fight with Gerard. He thinks I have
done Brand some mischief. This is
not the case, but I was in no posi-
tion to prove my innocence. I was
the last person I know of to see
Brand, earlier today. Gerard visited
his quarters a short time ago. He
says the place is broken up, there
are blood smears here and there and
Brand is missing. I don’t know
what to make of it.”

“Neither do I. But I hope it
means someone has done the job
properly this time.”

‘‘Lord,” I said, “it’s tangled. I
wish I had known all of these things
before.”

“There was never a proper time
to tell you,” he said, “until now.
Certainly not when you were a pris-
oner and could still be reached, and
after that you were gone for a long
while. When you returned with your
troops and your new weapons, I
was uncertain as to your full inten-
tions. Then things happened quickly
and Brand was back again. It was
too late. I had to get out to save my
skin. I am strong here in Arden.
Here, I can take anything he can
throw at me. I have been maintain-
ing the patrols at full battle force
and awaiting word of Brand’s death.
I wanted to inquire of one of
you whether he was still around.
But I could not decide whom to
ask, thinking myself still suspect

GALAXY

should he have died. As soon as I
did get word, though, should it
prove he was still living, I was re-
solved to have a try at him myself.
Now this . . . state of affairs
. . . What are you going to do
now, Corwin?”

“I am off to fetch the Jewel of
Judgment from a place where I
cached it in Shadow. There is a
way it can be used to destroy the
black road. I intend to try it.”

‘‘How can this be done?”

‘‘That is too long a story, for a
horrible thought has just occurred to
me.”

‘‘What is that?”

‘‘Brand wants the Jewel. He was
asking about it, and now — This
power of his to find things in
Shadow and fetch them back. How
good is it?”

Julian looked thoughtful.

‘‘He is hardly omniscient, if that
is what you mean. You can find
anything you want in Shadow the
normal way we go about it — by
traveling to it. According to Fiona,
he just cuts out the footwork. It is
therefore an object, not a particular
object that he summons. Besides,
that Jewel is a very strange item
from everything Eric told me about
it. I think Brand would have to go
after it in person, once he finds out
where it is.”

‘‘Then I must get on with my
hellride. I have to beat him to it.”

‘‘I see you are riding Drum,” Jul-
ian observed. ‘‘He is a good beast,
a sturdy fellow. Been through many
a hellride.”

‘‘Glad to hear that,” I said.
‘‘What are you going to do now?”

‘‘Get in touch with someone in
Amber and get up to date on every-

THE HAND OF OBERON

thing we haven’t had a chance to
talk about — Benedict, probably.”

‘‘No good,” 1 said. ‘‘You will
not be able to reach him. He is off
to the Courts of Chaos. Try Gerard,
and convince him I am an honor-
able man while you are about it.”
^‘The redheads are the only
magicians in this family, but I will
try. — You did say the Courts of
Chaos?”

‘‘Yes, but again, the time is too
valuable now.”

‘‘Of course. Get you gone. We
will have our leisure later — I trust.”

He reached out and clasped my
arm. I glanced at the manticora, at
the dogs seated in a circle about it.

‘‘Thanks, Julian. I — You are a
difficult man to understand.”

‘‘Not so. I think the Corwin I
hated must have died centuries ago.
Ride now, man! If Brand shows up
around here I’ll nail his hide to a
tree!”

He shouted an order to his dogs
as I mounted, and they fell upon the
carcass of the manitcora, lapping at
its blood and tearing out huge
chunks and strips of flesh. As I
rode past that strange, massive,
manlike face, I saw that its eyes
were still open, though glazed.
They were blue, and death had not
robbed them of a certain preter-
natural innocence. Either that, or
the look was death’s final gift — a
senseless way of passing out
ironies, if it was.

I took Drum back to the trail and
began my hellride.

Moving along the trail at a

gentle pace, clouds darkening the
sky and Drum’s whinny of memory
or anticipation ... A turn to the
left, and uphill . . . The ground is
brown, yellow, back to brown again
. . . The trees squat down, draw
apart . . . Grasses wave between
them in the cool and rising breeze
... A quick fire in the sky . . .
A rumble shakes loose raindrops . . .

Steep and rocky now . . . The
wind tugs at my cloak . . .
Up ... Up to where the rocks are
streaked with silver and the trees
have drawn their line . . . The
grasses, green fires, die down in
the rain . . . Up, to the craggy,
sparkling, rainwashed heights, where
the clouds rush and boil like a
mudgorged river at floodcrest . . .
The rain stings like buckshot and
the wind clears its throat to sing . . .
We rise and rise and the crest comes
into view, like the head of a
startled bull, horns guarding the
trail . . . Lightnings twist about
their tips, dance between them . . .
The smell of ozone as we reach that
place and rush on through, the rain
suddenly blocked, the wind shunted
away . . .

Emerging on the father

side . . . There is no rain, the air is
still, the sky smoothed and dark-
ened to a proper starfilled
black . . . Meteors cut and burn,
cut and burn, cauterizing to after-
image scars, fading, fading . . .
Moons, cast like a handful of
coins . . . Three bright dimes, a
dull quarter, a pair of pennies, one
of them tarnished and scarred
. . . Down then, that long, wind-
ing way . . . Hoofclops clear and
metallic in the night air . . . Some-
where, a cat-like cough ... A dark

shape crossing a lesser moon, rag-
ged and swift . . .

Downward . , . The land drops
away at either hand . . . Darkness
below . . . Moving along the top of
an infinitely high, curved wall, the
way itself bright with moon-
light . . . The trail buckles, folds,
grows transparent . . . Soon it
drifts, gauzy, filamentous, stars be-
neath as well as above . . . Stars
below on either side . . . There is
no land . . . There is only the
night, night and the thin, translu-
cent . . . trail I had to try to ride, to
learn how it felt, against some fu-
ture use . . .

It is absolutely silent now, and
the illusion of slowness attaches to
every movement . . . Shortly, the
trail falls away, and we move as if
swimming underwater at some
enormous depth, the stars bright
fish ... It is freedom, it is the
power of the hellride that brings an
elation, like yet unlike the reckless-
ness that sometimes comes in battle,
the boldness of a risky feat well-
learned, the rush of rightness fol-
lowing the finding of the poem’s
proper word ... It is these and the
prospect itself, riding, riding, rid-
ing, from nowhere to nowhere
perhaps, across and among the min-
erals and fires of the void, free of
earth and air and water . . .

We race a great meteor, we touch
upon its bulk . . . Speeding across
its pitted surface, down, around,
then up again ... It stretches into a
great plain, it lightens, it yel-
lows . . .

It is sand, sand now beneath our
movement . . . The stars fade out
as the darkness is diluted to a morn-
ing full of sunrise . . . Swaths of

GALAXY

shade ahead, desert trees within
them . . . Ride for the dark . . .
Crashing through . . . Bright birds
burst forth, complain, resettle . . .

Among the thickening trees
. Darker the ground, narrower
the way . . . Palm fronds shrfnk to
hand-size, barks darken ... A twist
to the right, a widening of the
way . . . Our hoofs striking sparks
from cobblestones . . . The lane en-
larges, becomes a tree-lined
street . . . Tiny row-houses flash
by . . . Bright shutters, marble
steps, painted screens, set back be-
yond flagged walks . . . Passing, a
horse-drawn cart, loaded with fresh
vegetables . . . Human pedestrians
turning to stare ... A small buzz
of voices . . .

On . . . Passing beneath a
bridge . . . Coursing the stream till
it widens to river, taking it down to
the sea . . .Thudding along the
beach beneath a lemon sky, blue
clouds studding . . . The silt, the
wrack, the shells, the smooth
anatomy of driftwood . . . White
spray off the lime-colored sea . . .

Racing, to where the place of wa-
ters ends at a terrace . . . Mount-
ing, each step crumbling and roar-
ing down behind, losing its identity,
joined with the boom of the
surf . . Up, up to the flattopped,
treegrown plain, a golden city
shimmering, mirage-like, at its
end ...

The city grows, darkens beneath
a shadowy umbrella, its gray towers
stretch upward, glass and metal
flashing light through the
murk . . . The towers begin to
sway . . .

The city falls in upon itself,
soundlessly, as we pass . . . Towers

the hand of oberon

topple, dust boils, rises, is pinked
by some lower glow ... A gentle
noise, as of a snuffed candle, drift-
ing by . . .

A dust storm, quickly falling,
giving place to fog . . . Through it,
the sounds of automobile
horns ... A drift, a brief lift, a
break in the gray white, pearlwhite,
shifting . . . Our hoofprints on a
shoulder of highway ... To the
right, endless rows of unmoving
vehicles . . . Pearlwhite, graywhite,
drifting again . . .

Directionless shrieks and
wailings . . . Random flashes of
light . . .

Rising once more . . . The fogs
lower and ebb . . . Grass, grass,
grass . . . Clear now the sky, and
delicate blue_. . . A sun racing to
set . . . Birds ... A cow in the
field, chewing, staring and
chewing . . .

Leaping a wooden fence to ride a
country road ... A sudden chill
beyond the hill . . . The grasses are
dry and snow’s on the
ground . . . Tin-roofed farmhouse
atop a hill, curl of smoke above
it . . .

On . . . The hills rise up, the sun
rolls down, darkness dragged
behind ... A sprinkle of
stars . . . Here a house, set far
back . . . There another, long
driveway wound among old
trees . . . Headlights . . .

Off to the side of the
road . . . Draw rein and let it
pass . . .

I wiped my brow, dusted my
shirtfront and sleeves. I patted
Drum’s neck. The oncoming vehicle
slowed as it neared me, and I could
see the driver staring. I gave the

reins a gentle movement and Drum
began walking. The car braked to a
halt and the driver called something
after me, but I kept going.
Moments later, I heard him drive
off.

It was country road for a time
after that. I traveled at an easy
pace, passing familiar landmarks,
recalling other times. A few miles
later and I came to another road,
wider and better. I turned there,
staying off on the shoulder to the
right. The temperature continued to
drop, but the cold air had a good
clean taste to it. A sliced moon
shone above the hills to my left.
There were a few small clouds
passing overhead, touched to the
moon’s quarter with a soft, dusty
light. There was very little wind; an
occasional stirring of branches, no
more. After a time, I came to a
series of dips in the road, telling me
I was almost there.

A curve and a couple more
dips ... I saw the boulder beside
the driveway, I read my address
upon it.

I drew rein then and looked up
the hill. There was a station wagon
in the driveway and a light on in-
side the house. I guided Drum off
the road and across a field into a
stand of trees. I tethered him behind
a pair of evergreens, rubbed his
neck and told him I would not be
long.

I returned to the road. No cars in
sight. I crossed over and walked up
the far side of the driveway, passing
behind the station wagon. The only
light in the house was in the living
room, off to the right. I made my
way around the left side of the
house to the rear.

I halted when I reached the patio,
looking around. Something was
wrong.

The back yard was changed. A
pair of decaying lawn chairs which
had been leaning against a
dilapidated chicken coop I had
never bothered to remove, were
gone. So, for that matter, was the
chicken coop. They had been pres-
ent the last time I had passed this
way. All of the dead tree limbs
which had previously been strewn
about, as well as a rotting mass of
them I had long ago heaped to cut
for firewood, were also gone.

The compost heap was missing.

I moved to the space where it had
been. All that was there was an
irregular patch of bare earth of the
approximate shape of the heap
itself.

But I had discovered in attuning
myself to the Jewel that I could
make myself feel its presence. I
closed my eyes for a moment and
tried to do so.

Nothing.

I looked again, searching
carefully, but there was no telltale
glitter anywhere in sight. Not that I
had really expected to see anything,
not if I could not feel it nearby.

There had been no curtains in the
lighted room. Studying the house
now, I saw that none of the
windows had curtains, shades,
shutters or blinds. Therefore . . .

I passed around the other end of
the house. Approaching the first
lighted window, I glanced in quick-
ly. Dropcloths covered much of the
floor. A man in cap and coveralls
was painting the far wall.

Of course.

I had asked Bill to sell the place,

GALAXY

1 had signed the necessary papers
while a patient in the local clinic,
when I had been projected back to
my old house — probably by some
action of the Jewel — on the
occasion of my stabbing. That
would have been several weeks ago,
local time, using the Amber to
shadow Earth conversion factor of
approximately two and a half to one
and allowing for the eight days the
Courts of Chaos had cost me in
Amber. Bill, of course, had gone
ahead on my request. But the place
had been in bad shape, abandoned
as it had been for a number of
years, vandalized ... It needed
some new window panes, some
roofing work, new guttering,
painting, sanding, buffing. And
there had been a lot of trash to haul
away, outside as well as inside . . .

I turned away and walked down
the front slope to the road, recalling
my last passage this way, half-
delirious, on my hands and knees,
blood leaking from my side. It had
been much colder that night and
there had been snow on the ground
and in the air. I passed near the
spot where' I’d sat, trying to flag
down a car with a pillow case. The
memory was slightly blurred, but I
still recalled the ones that had
passed me by.

I crossed the road, made my way
through the field to the trees.
Unhitching Drum, I mounted.

“We’ve some more riding
ahead,” I told him. “Not too far
this time.”

We headed back to the road and
started along it, continuing on past
my house. If I had not told Bill to
go ahead and sell the place, the
compost heap would still have been

THE HAND OF OBERON

there, the Jewel would still have
been there. I could be on my way
back to Amber with the ruddy stone
hung about my neck, ready to have
a try at what had to be done. Now,
now I had to go looking for it,
when I’d a feeling time was
beginning to press once again. At
least, I had a favorable ratio here
with respect to its passage in
Amber. I clucked at Drum and
shook the reins. No sense wasting
time, even so.

A half hour, and I was into town,
riding down a quiet street in a
residential area, houses all about
me. The lights were on at Bill’s
place. I turned up his driveway. I
left Drum in his back yard.

Alice answered my knock, stared
a moment, then said, “My God!
Carl!”

Minutes later, I was seated in the
living room with Bill, a drink on
the table to my right. Alice was out
in the kitchen, having made the
mistake of asking me whether I
wanted something to eat.

Bill studied me as he lit his pipe.

“Your ways of coming and going
still tend to be colorful,” he said.

I smiled.

“Expediency is all,” I said.

“That nurse at the

clinic . . . Scarcely anyone believed
her story.”

“Scarcely anyone?”

“The minority I refer to is, of
course, myself.”

“What was her story?”

“She claimed that you walked to
the center of the room, became
two-dimensional and just faded
away, like the old soldier that you
are, with a rainbow-like
accompaniment.”

“Glaucoma can cause the
rainbow symptom. She ought to
have her eyes checked.”

“She did,” he said. “Nothing
wrong.”

“Oh. Too bad. The next thing
that comes to mind is
neurological.”

“Come on, Carl. She’s all right.
You know that.”

I smiled and took a sip of my
drink.

“And you,” he said, “you look
' like a certain playing card I once
commented on. Complete with
sword. What’s going on, Carl?”
“It’s still complicated,” I said.
“Even more than the last time we
talked.”

“Which means you can’t give me
that explanation yet?”

I shook my head.

“You have won an all-expense
tour of my homeland, when this is
over,” I said, “if I still have a
homeland then. Right now, time is
doing terrible things.”

“What can I do to help you?”
“Information, please. My old
house. Who is the guy you having
fixing the place up?”

“Ed Wellen. Local contractor.
You know him, I think. Didn’t he
put in a shower for you, or
something?”

“Yes, yes he did ... I
remember. ’ ’

“He’s expanded quite a bit.
Bought some heavy equipment. Has
a number of fellows working for
him now. I handled his incorpora-
tion.”

“Do you know who he’s got
working at my place — now?”

“Offhand, no. But I can find out
in just a minute.” He moved his

hand to rest on the telephone on the
side table. “Shall I give him a
ring?”

“Yes,” I said, “but there is a lit-
tle more to it than that. There is
only one thing in which I am truly
interested. There was a compost
heap in the back yard. It was there
the last time I passed this way. It is
gone now. I have to find out what
became of it.”

He cocked his head to the right
and grinned around his pipe.

“You serious?” he finally said.
“Sure as death,” I said. “I hid
something in that heap when I
crawled by, decorating the snow
with my precious bodily fluids. I’ve
got to have it back now.”

“Just what is it?”

“A ruby pendant.”

“Priceless, I suppose.”

“Your’re right.”

He nodded, slowly.

“If it were anyone else, I would
suspect a practical joke,” he said.
“A treasure in a compost
heap . . . Family heirloom?”

“Yes. Forty or fifty carats. Sim-
ple setting. Heavy chain.”

He removed his pipe and whistled
softly.

“Mind if I ask why you put it
there?”

“I’d be dead now if I hadn’t.”
“Pretty good reason.”

He reached for the phone again.
“We’ve had some action on the
house already,” he remarked. “Pretty
good, since I haven’t advertised
yet. Fellow’d heard from someone
who’d heard from someone else. I
took him over this morning. He’s
thinking about it. We may move it
pretty quick.”

He began to dial.

GALAXY

“Wait,” I said. “Tell me about
him.”

He cradled the phone, looked up.

“Thin guy,” he said. “Redhead.
Had a beard. Said he was an artist.
Wants a place in the country.”

“Son of a bitch!” I said, just as
Alice came into the room with a
tray.

She made a tsking sound and
smiled as she delivered it to me.

“Just a couple hamburgers and
some leftover salad,” she said.
“Nothing to get excited about.”

“Thank you. I was getting ready
to eat my horse. I’d have felt bad
afterwards.”

“I don’t imagine he’d have been
too happy about it himself. Enjoy,”
she said, and returned to the
kitchen.

‘‘Was the compost heap still
there when you took him over?” I
asked.

He closed his eyes and furrowed
his brow.

“No,” he said after a moment.
“The yard was already clear.”

“That’s something, anyway,” I
said, and I began eating.

He made the call, and he talked
for several minutes. I got the drift
of things from his end of the con-
versation, but I listened to the entire
thing after he had hung up, while I
finished the food and washed it
down with what was left in my
glass.

“He hated to see good compost
go to waste,” Bill said. “So he
pitched the heap into his pickup just
the other day and took it out to his
farm. He dumped it next to a plot
he intends to cultivate, and he has
not had a chance to spread it yet.
Says he did not notice any jewelry,

THE HAND OF OBERON

but then he could easily have miss-
ed it.”

I nodded.

“If I can borrow a flashlight, I
had better get moving.”

“Sure. I will drive you out,” he
said.

“I do not want to be parted from
my horse at this point.”

“Well, you will probably want a
rake, and a shovel or a pitchfork. I
can drive them out and meet you
there, if you know where the place
is.”

“I know where Ed’s place is. He
must have tools, though.”

Bill shrugged and smiled.

“All right,” I said. “Let me use
your bathroom, and then we had bet-
ter get moving.”

“You know where it is. — By the
way, you seemed as if you knew
the prospective buyer.”

I put the tray aside and rose.

“You heard of him last as Bran-
don Corey.”

“The guy who pretended to be
your brother and got you commit-
ted?”

“ ‘Pretended’ hell! He is my
brother. No fault of mine, though.
Excuse me.”

“He was there.”

“Where?”

“Ed’s place, this afternoon. At
least a bearded redhead was.”
“Doing what?”

“Said he was an artist. Said he
wanted permission to set up his
easel and paint in one of the fields.”
“And Ed let him?”

“Of course. Thought it was a
great idea. That is why he told me
about it. Wanted to brag.”

“Get the stuff. I will meet you
there.”

“Right.”

The second thing I took out in
the bathroom was my Trumps. I
had to reach someone in Amber
soonest, someone strong enough to
stop him. But who? Benedict was
on his way to the Courts of Chaos,
Random was off looking for his
son. I had just parted with Gerard
on somewhat less than amicable
terms. I wished that I had a Trump
for Ganelon.

I decided that I would have to try
Gerard.

I drew forth his card, performed
the proper mental maneuvers. Mo-
ments later, I had contact.

“Corwin!”

“Just listen, Gerard! Brand is
alive, if that is any consolation. I’m
damn sure of that. This is impor-
tant. Life and death. You’ve got to
do something — fast!”

His expressions had changed
rapidly while I had spoken — anger,
surprise, interest . . .

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Brand could be coming back
very soon. In fact, he may already
be in Amber. You haven’t seen him
yet, have you?”

“No.”

“He must be stopped from walk-
ing the Pattern.”

“I do not understand. But I can
post a guard outside the chamber of
the Pattern.”

“Put the guard inside the
chamber. He has strange ways of
coming and going now. Terrible
things may happen if he walks the
Pattern.”

“I will watch it personally then.
What is happening?”

“No time now. Here is the next
thing: Is Llewella back in Rebma?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Get hold of her with her
Trump. She’s got to warn Moire
that the Pattern in Rebma has to be
guarded also.”

“How serious is this, Corwin?”

“It could be the end of every-
thing,” I said. “I have to go now.”
- I broke the contact and headed
for the kitchen and the back door,
stopping only long enough to thank
Alice and say good night. If Brand
got hold of the Jewel and attuned
himself to it, I was not certain what
he would do, but I had a pretty
strong hunch.

I mounted Drum and turned him
toward the road. Bill was already
backing out of the driveway.

XI.

I cut through fields in many
places where Bill had to follow the
roads, so I was not all that far be-
hind him. When I drew up, he was
talking with Ed, who was gesturing
toward the southwest.

As I dismounted, Ed was study-
ing Drum.

“Nice horse, that,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You’ve been away.”

“Yes.”

We shook hands.

“Good to see you again. I was
just telling Bill that I don’t really
know how long that artist stayed
around. I just figured he would go
away when it got dark, and I didn’t
pay too much attention. Now, if he
was really looking for something of
yours and knew about the compost
heap, he could still be out there for
all I know. I’ll get my shotgun, if
you like, and go with you.”

GALAXY

“No,” I said, “thanks. I think I
know who it was. The gun will not
be necessary. WeTl just walk over
and do a little poking around.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let me come
along and give you a hand.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I
said.

“How about your horse, then?
What say I give him a drink and
something to eat, clean him up a
bit?”

“I’m sure he’d be grateful. I
know I would.”

“What’s his name?”

“Drum.”

He approached Drum and began
making friends with him.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back
in the barn for awhile. If you need
me for anything, just holler.”
“Thanks.”

I got the tools out of Bill’s car
and he carried the electric lantern,
leading me off to the southwest
where Ed had been pointing earlier.

As we crossed the field, I fol-
lowed the beam of Bill’s light,
searching for the heap. When I saw
what might be the remains of one, I
drew a deep breath, involuntarily.
Someone must have been at it, the
way the clods were strewn about.
The mass would not have been
dumped from a truck to fall in such
a dispersed fashion.

Still . . . The fact that someone
had looked did not mean he had lo-
cated what he had been seeking.
“What do you think?” Bill said.
“I don’t know,” I told him, low-
ering the tools to the ground and
approaching the largest aggregate in
sight. “Give me some light here.”

I scanned what remained of the
heap, then fetched a rake- and began

the hand of OBERON

taking it apart. I broke each clod
and spread it upon the ground, run-
ning the tines through it. After a
time. Bill set the lantern at a good
angle and moved to help me.

“I’ve got a funny feeling . . .”
he said.

“So do I.”

“. . . . That we may be too
late.”

We kept at it, pulverizing and
spreading, pulverizing and spread-
ing .. .

I felt the tingle of a familiar pre-
sence. I straightened and waited.
Contact came moments later.

“Corwin!”

“Here, Gerard.”

“What’d you say?” said Bill.

I raised my hand to silence him
and gave my attention to Gerard.
He stood in shadow at the bright
beginning of the Pattern, leaning
upon his great blade.

“You were right,” he said.
“Brand did show up here, just a
moment ago. I am not sure how he
got in. He stepped out of the
shadows off to the left, there.” He
gestured. “He looked at me for a
moment, then turned around and
walked back. He did not answer
when I hailed him. So I turned up
the lantern, but he was nowhere in
sight. He just disappeared. What do
you want me to do now?”

“Was he wearing the Jewel of
Judgment?”

“I could not tell. I only had sight
of him for a moment, in this bad
light.”

“Are they watching the Pattern in
Rebma now?”

“Yes. Llewella’s alerted them.”

“Good. Stay on guard, then. I
will be in touch again.”

“All right. Corwin— About what
happened earlier ...”

“Forget it.”

“Thanks. That Ganelon is one
tough fellow.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Stay awake.”
His image faded as I released the
contact, but a strange thing hap-
pened then. The sense of contact,
the path, remained with me, object-
less, open, like a switched-on radio
not tuned to anything.

Bill was looking at me peculiarly.
“Carl, what is happening?”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute.”
Suddenly, there was contact
again, though not with Gerard. She
must have been trying to reach me
while my attention was diverted.
“Corwin, it is important ...”
“Go ahead, Fi.”

“You will not find what you are
looking for there. Brand has it.”

“I was beginning to suspect as
much.”

“We have to stop him. I do not
know how much you know about
these matters — ”

“Neither do I anymore,” I said,
“but I have the Pattern in Amber
and the one in Rebma under gilard.
Gerard just told me that Brand ap-
peared at the one in Amber, but
was scared off.”

She nodded her small, fine-
featured face. Her red tresses were
unusually disarrayed. She looked
tired.

“I am aware of this,” she said.
“I have him under surveillance. But
you have forgotten another possibil-
ity.”

“No,” I said. “According to my
calculations, Tir-na Nog’th should
not be attainable yet — ”

“That is not what I was referring

to. He is headed for the primal Pat-
tern itself.”

“To attune the Jewel?”

“The first time through,” she
said.

“To walk it, he would have to
pass through the damaged area. I
gather that is more than a little dif-
ficult.”

“So you do know about it,” she
said. “Good. That saves time. The
dark area would not trouble him the
way it would another of us. He has
come to terms with that darkness.
We must stop him, now.”

“Do you know any shortcuts to
that place?”

“Yes. Come to me. I will take
you there.”

“Just a minute. I want Drum
with me.”

“What for?”

“No telling. That is why I want
him.”

“Very well. Then bring me
through. We can as easily depart
from there as from here.”

I extended my hand. In a mo-
ment, I held hers. She stepped for-
ward.

“Lord!” said Bill, drawing back.
“You were giving me doubts about
your sanity, Carl. Now it’s mine I
wonder about. She — She’s on one
of the cards, too, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Bill, this is my sister
Fiona. Fiona, this is Bill Roth, a.
very good friend.”

Fi extended her hand and smiled,
and I left them there while I went
back to fetch Drum. A few minwtes
later, 1 led him forth.

“Bill,” I said, “I am sorry to
have wasted your time. My brother
has the thing. We are going after
him now. Thanks for helping me.”

GALAXY

I shook his hand. He said,
“Corwin.” I smiled.

‘‘Yes, that is my name.”

“We have been talking, your sis-
ter and I. Not much I could learn in
a few minutes, but I know it is
dangerous. So good luck. I still
want the whole story one day.”
‘‘Thanks,” I said. ‘‘I will try to
see that you get it.”

1 mounted, leaned down and
drew Fiona up before me.

‘‘Good night. Mister Roth,” she
said. Then, to me, ‘‘Start riding,
slowly, across the field.”

I did.

‘‘Brand says you are the one who
stabbed him,” I said, as soon as we
had gone far enough to feel alone.
‘‘That’s right.”

‘‘Why?”

‘‘To avoid all this.”

‘‘I talked with him for a long
while. He claimed it was originally
you, Bleys and himself, together in
a scheme to seize power. ’ ’

‘‘That is correct.”

‘‘He told me he had approached
Caine, trying to win him to your
side, but that Caine would have
none of it, that Caine had passed
the word along to Eric and Julian.
And this led to their forming their
own group, to block your way to
the throne.”

‘‘That is basically correct. Caine
had ambitions of his own — long-
term ones — but ambitions neverthe-
less. He was in no position to pur-
sue them, however. So he decided
that if his lot was to be a lesser
one, he would rather serve it under
Eric than under Bleys. I can see his
point, too.”

‘‘He also claimed that the three
of you had a deal going with the

the hand of OBERON

powers at the end of the black road,
in the Courts of Chaos.”

“Yes,” she said, ‘‘we did.”

‘‘You use the past tense.”

‘‘For myself and for Bleys, yes.”
‘‘That is not the way Brand tells
it.”

‘‘He wouldn’t.”

‘‘He said you and Bleys wanted
to continue exploiting that alliance,
but that he had had a change of
heart. Because of this, he claims
you turned on him and imprisoned
him in that tower.”

‘‘Why didn’t we just kill him?”

‘‘I give up. Tell me.”

‘‘He was too dangerous to be al-
lowed his freedom, but we could
not kill him either because he held
something vital.”

‘‘What?”'

‘‘With Dworkin gone. Brand was
the only one who knew how to
undo the damage he had done to the
primal Pattern.”

‘‘You had a long time to get that
information out of him.”

‘‘He possesses unbelievable re-
sources.”

‘‘Then why did you stab him?”

‘‘I repeat, to avoid all this. If it
became a question of his freedom or
his death, it were better he died.
We would have to take our chances
on figuring the method of repairing
the Pattern.”

‘‘This being the case, why did
you consent to cooperate in bringing
him back?”

‘‘First, I was not cooperating, I
was trying to impede the attempt.
But there were too many trying too
hard. You got through to him in
spite of me. Second, I had to be on
hand to try to kill him in the event
you succeeded. Too bad things

worked out the way they did.”

“You say that you and Bleys had
second thoughts about the alliance,
but that Brand did not?”

“Yes.”

“How did your second thoughts
affect your desire for the throne?”
“We thought we could manage it
without any additional outside
help.”

“I see.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I’m afraid that I am beginning
to.”

“Turn here.”

I entered a cleft in a hillside. The
way was narrow and very dark,
with only a small band of stars
above us. Fiona had been man-
ipulating Shadow while we had
talked, leading us from Ed’s field
downward, into a misty, moor-like
place, then up again, to a clear and
rocky trail among mountains. Now,
as we moved through the dark de-
file, I felt her working with Shadow
again. The air was cool but not
cold. The blackness to our left and
our right was absolute, giving the il-
lusion of enormous depths, rather
than nearby rock cloaked in
shadow. This impressipn was rein-
forced, I suddenly realized, by the
fact that Drum’s hoofbeats were not
producing any echoes, aftersounds,
overtones.

“What can I do to gain your
trust?” she said.

“That’s asking quite a bit.”

She laughed.

“Let me rephrase it. What can I
do to convince you I am telling the
truth?”

“Just answer one question.”
“What?”

“Who shot out my tires?”

She laughed again.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t
you?” ■

“Maybe. You tell me.”
“Brand,” she said. “He had
failed in his effort to destroy your
memory, so he decided he had bet-
ter do a more thorough job.”

“The version I had of the story
was that Bleys had done the shoot-
ing and left me in the lake, that
Brand had arrived in time to drag
me out and save my life. In fact,
the police report seemed to indicate
something to that effect.”

“Who called the police?” she
asked.

“They had it listed as an
anonymous call, but — ”

“Bleys called them. He couldn’t
reach you in time to save you, once
he realized what was happening. He
hoped that they could. Fortunately,
they did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Brand did not drag you out of
the wreck. You did it yourself. He
waited around to be certain you
were dead, and you surfaced and
pulled yourself ashore. He went
down and was checking you over,
to decide whether you would die if
he just left you there or whether he
should throw you back in again.
The police arrived about then and
he had to clear out. We caught up
with him shortly afterwards and
were able to subdue him and im-
prison him in the tower. That took a
lot of doing. Later, I contacted Eric
and told him what had happened.
He then ordered Flora to put you in
the other place and see that you
were held until after his corona-
tion.”

“It fits,” I said. “Thanks.”

GALAXY

“What does it fit?”

“I was only a small-town GP in
simpler times than these, and I
never had much to do with psychiat-
ric cases. But I do know that you
don’t give a person electroshock
therapy to restore memories. EST
generally does just the opposite. It
destroys some of the short-term
ones. My suspicions began to stir
when I learned that that was what
Brand had had done to me. So I
came up with my own hypothesis.
The auto wreck did not restore my
memories, and neither did the EST.
I had finally begun recovering them
naturally, not as the result of any
particular trauma. I must have done
something or said something to in-
dicate that this was occurring. Word
of it somehow got to Brand and he
decided that this would nor be a
good thing to have happen at that
time. So he journeyed to my
shadow and managed to get me
committed and subjected to treat-
ment which he hoped would wipe
out those things I had recently re-
covered. This was just partly suc-
cessful, in that its only lasting effect
was to fuzz me up for the few days
surrounding the sessions. The acci-
dent may have contributed, too. But
when I escaped from Porter and
lived through his attempt to kill me,
the process of recovery continued
after I regained consciousness in
Greenwood and left the place. I was
remembering more and more when I
was staying at Flora’s. The recovery
was accelerated by Random’s taking
me to Rebma, where I walked the
Pattern. If this had not occurred,
however, I am convinced now that
it would all have come back, aijy-
way. It might have taken somewhat

THE HAND OF OBERON

longer, but I had broken through
and the remembering was an ongo-
ing process, coming faster and fast-
er near the end. So I concluded
that Brand was trying to sabotage
me, and that is what fits the things
you just told me.”

The band of stars had narrowed,
and it finally vanished above us.
We advanced through what seemed
a totally black tunnel now, with
perhaps the tiniest flickering of light
a great distance ahead of us.

“Yes,” she said in the darkness
before me, “you guessed correctly.
Brand was afraid of you. He
claimed he had seen your return one
night in Tir-na Nog’th, to the undo-
ing of all our plans. I paid him no
heed at the time, for I was not even
aware you still lived. It must have
been then that he set out to find
you. Whether he divined our
whereabouts by some arcane means
or simply saw it in Eric’s mind, I
do not know. Probably the latter.
He is occasionally capable of such a
feat. However he located you, you
now know the rest.”

“It was Flora’s presence in that
place and her strange liaison with
Eric that first made him suspicious.
Or so he said. Not that it matters,
now. What do you propose doing
with him if we get our hands on
him?”

She chuckled.

“You are wearing your blade,”
she said.

“Brand told me, not all that long
ago, that Bleys is still alive. Is this
true?”

“Yes.”

“Then why am I here, rather
than Bleys?”

“Bleys is not attuned to the

Jewel. You are. You interact with it
at near distances, and it will attempt
to preserve your life if you are in
imminent danger of losing it. The
risk, therefore, is not as great,” she
said. Then, moments later, “Don't
take it for granted, though. A swift
stroke can still beat its reaction.
You can die in its presence.”

The light ahead grew larger,
brighter, but there were no drafts,
sounds or smells from that direc-
tion. Advancing, I thought of the
layers upon layers of explanations I
had received since my return, each
with its own complex of motiva-
tions, justifications for what had
happened while I was away, for
what had happened since, for what
was happening now. The emotions,
the plans, the feelings, the objec-
tives I had seen swirled like flood-
water through the city of facts I was
slowly erecting on the grave of my
other self, and though an act is an
act, in the best Steinian tradition,
each wave of interpretation that
broke upon me shifted the position
of one or more things I had thought
safely anchored, and by this brought
about an alteration of the whole, to
the extent that all of life seemed
almost a shifting interplay of
Shadow about the Amber of some
never-to-be-attained truth. Still, I
could not deny that I knew more
now than I had several years earlier,
that I was closer to the heart of mat-
ters than I had been before, that the
entire action in which I had been
caught up upon my return seemed
now to be sweeping toward some
final resolution. And what did I
want? A chance to find out what
was right and a chance to act on it!
I laughed. Who is ever granted the

first, let alone the second of these?
A workable . approximation of truth,
then. That would be enough. — And
a chance to swing my blade a few
times in the right direction: The
highest compensation I could re-
ceive from a one o’clock world for
the changes wrought since noon. I
laughed again and made sure my
blade was loose in the sheath.

“Brand said that Bleys had raised
another army — ” I began.

“Later,” she said, “later. There
is no more time.”

And she was right. The light had
grown large, become a circular
opening. It had approached at a rate
out of proportion to our advance, as
though the tunnel itself were con-
tracting. It seemed to be daylight
that was rushing in through what I
chose to regard as the cavemouth.

“All right,” I said, and moments
later we reached the opening and
passed through it.

I blinked my eyes as we
emerged. To my left was the sea,
which seemed to merge with the
same-colored sky. The golden sun
which floated/hung above/within it,
bounced beams of brilliance from
all directions. Behind me, now,
there was nothing but rock. Our
passage to this place had vanished
without a sign. Not too far below
and before me — perhaps a hundred
feet distant — lay the primal Pattern.
A figure was negotiating the second
of its outer arcs, his attention so
confined by this activity that he had
apparently not yet noted our pre-
sence. A flash of red as he took a
turn: the Jewel, hanging now from
his neck as it had hung from mine,
from Eric’s, from Dad’s. The fi-
gure, of course, was Brand’s.

GALAXY

I dismouted. I looked up at
Fiona, small and distraught, and I
placed Drum’s reins in her hand.

“Any advice, other than to go
after him?” I whispered.

She shook her head.

Turning then, I drew Grayswan-
dir and' strode forward.

“Good luck,” she said softly.

As I walked toward the Pattern, I
saw the long chain, leading from
the cavemouth to the now still form
of the griffin Wixer. Wixer’s head
lay on the ground several paces to
the left of his body. Body and head
both leaked a normal colored blood
upon the stone.

As 1 approached the beginning of
the Pattern, I did a quick calcula-
tion. Brand had already taken sev-
eral turns about the general spiral of
the design. He was approximately
two and a half laps into it. If we
were only separated by one wind-
ing, I could reach him with my blade
once I achieved a position parallel-
ing his own. The going, however,
got rougher the further one pene-
trated the design. Consequently,
Brand was moving at a steadily de-
creasing pace. So it would be close.
I did not have to catch him. I just
had to pick up a lap and a half and
obtain a position across from him.

I placed my foot upon the Pattern
and moved forward, as fast as I was
able. The blue sparks began about
my feet as I rushed through the first
curve against the rising resistance.
The sparks grew quickly. My hair
was beginning to rise when I hit the
First Veil, and the crackling of the
sparks was quite audible now. I
pushed on against the pressure of
the Veil, wondering whether Brand
had noticed me yet, unable to afford

THE HAND OF OBERON

the distraction of a glance in his di-
rection just then. I met the resis-
tance with increased force, and sev-
eral steps later I was through the
Veil and moving more easily again.

I looked up. Brand was just
emerging from the terrible Second
Veil, blue sparks as high as his
waist. He was grinning a grin of re-
solve and triumph as he pulled free
and took a clear step forward. Then
he saw me.

The grin went away and he hesi-
tated, a point in my favor. You
never stop on the Pattern if you can
help it. If you do, it costs a lot of
extra energy to get moving again.

“You are too late!'’ he called
out.

“I did not answer him. I just
kept moving. Blue fires fell from
the Pattern tracery along Grayswan-
dir’s length.

“You will not make it through
the black,” he said.

I kept going. The dark area was
just ahead of me now. I was glad
that it had not occurred over one of
the more difficult portions of the
Pattern this time around. Brand
moved forward and slowly began
his movement toward the Grand
Curve. If I could catch him there, it
would be no contest. He would not
have the strength or the speed to de-
fend himself.

As I approached the damaged
portion of the Pattern, I recalled the
means by which Ganelon and I had
cut the black road on our flight
from Avalon. I had succeeded in
breaking the power of the road by
holding the image of the Pattern in
my mind as we had gone across.
Now, of course, I had the Pattern
itself all around me, and the dis-

tance was not nearly so great.
While my first thought had been
that Brand was simply trying to rat-
tle me with his threat, it occurred to
me that the force of the dark place
might well be much stronger here at
its source. As I came up to it,
Grayswandir blazed with a sudden
intensity which outshone its previ-
ous light. On an impulse, I touched
its point to the edge of the black-
ness, at the place where the Pattern
ended.

Grayswandir clove to the black-
ness and could not be raised above
it. I continued forward, and my
blade sliced the area before me, slid-
ing ahead in what seemed an ap-
proximation of the original tracery.
I followed. The sun seemed to dark-
en as I trod the dark ground. I was
suddenly conscious of my heartbeat,
and perspiration formed on my
brow. A grayish cast fell over every-
thing. The world seemed to dim,
the Pattern to fade. It seemed it
would be easy to step amiss in this
place, and I was not certain whether
the result would be the same as a
misstep within the intact portions of
the Pattern. I did not want to find
out.

I kept my eyes low, following the
line Grayswandir was inscribing be-
fore me, the blade’s blue fire now
the only thing of color left to the
world. Right foot, left foot . . .

Then suddenly I was out of it and
Grayswandir swung free in my hand
once again, the fires partly di-
minished, whether by contrast with
the reilluminated prospect or for
some other reason I did not know.

Looking about, I saw that Brand
was approaching the Grand Curve.
As for me, I was working my way

toward the Second Veil. We would
both be involved in the strenuous
efforts these entailed in a few more
minutes. The Grand Curve is more
difficult, more prolonged than the
Second Veil, however. I should be
free and moving more quickly again
before he worked his way through
the barrier. Then I would have to
cross the damaged area another
time. He might be free by then, but
he would be moving more slowly
than 1 would, for he would be into
the area where the going becomes
even more difficult.

A steady static arose with each
step that I took, and a tingling sen-
sation permeated my entire body.
The sparks rose to mid-thigh as I
moved. It was like striding through
a field of electric wheat. My hair
was at least partly risen by then. I
could feel its stirring. I glanced
back once to see Fiona, still
mounted, unmoving, watching.

I pressed ahead to the Second
Veil.

Angles . . . Short, sharp turns
. . . The force rose and rose
against me, so that all of my atten-
tion, all of my strength was now
occupied in striving against it.
There came again that familiar
sense of timelessness, as though this
was all I had ever done, all that I
ever would do. And will ... A fo-
cussing of desire to such an inten-
sity that everything else was
excluded . . . Brand, Fiona,
Amber, my own identity . . . The
sparks rose to even greater heights
as I struggled, turned, labored, each
step requiring more effort than the
previous one.

I pushed through. Right into the
black area again.

GALAXY

Reflexively, I moved Grayswan-
dir down and ahead once more.
Again, the grayness, the mono-
chrome fog, cut by the blue of my
blade opening the way before me
like a surgical incision.

When I emerged into normal
light, I sought Brand. He was still
in the western quadrant. Struggling
with the Grand Curve, about two-
thirds of the way through it. If I
pushed hard, I might be able to
catch him just as he was coming out
of it. I threw all of my strength into
moving as quickly as possible.

As I made it to the north end of
the Pattern and into the curve lead-
ing back, it struck me suddenly
what I was about to do.

I was rushing to spill more blood
upon the Pattern.

If it came to a simple choice be-
tween further damage to the Pattern
and Brand’s destroying it utterly,
then I knew what I had to do. Yet,
I felt there had to be another way.
Yes . . .

I slowed my pace just a trifle. It
was going to be a matter of timing.
His passage was a lot rougher than
mine just then, so I had an edge in
that respect. My entire new strategy
involved arranging our encounter at
just the right point. Ironically, at
that moment, I recalled Brand’s
concern for his rug. The problem of
keeping this place clean was a lot
trickier, though.

He was nearing the end of the
Grand Curve, and I paced him
while calculating the distance to the
blackness. I had decided to let him
do his bleeding over the area which
had already been damaged. The
only disadvantage I seenied to pos-
sess was that I would be situated to

Brand’s right. To minimize the ben-
efit this would give him when we
crossed blades, I would have to re-
main somewhat to the rear.

Brand struggled and advanced, all
of his movements in slow motion. I
struggled too, but not as hard. I
kept the pace. I wondered as I
went, about the Jewel, about the af-
finity we had shared since the at-
tunement. I could feel its presence,
there to my left and ahead, even
though I could not see it now upon
Brand’s breast. Would it really act
to save me across that distance
should Brand gain the upper hand in
our coming conflict? Feeling its
presence, I could almost believe
that it would. It had tom me from
one assailant and found, somehow,
within my mind, a traditional place
of safety — my own bed — and had
transported me there. Feeling it
now, almost seeing the way before
Brand through it, I felt some assur-
ance that it would attempt to func-
tion on my behalf once again. Re-
calling Fiona’s words, however, I
was determined not to rely on it.
Still, I considered its other func-
tions, speculated upon my ability to
operate it without contact . . .

Brand had almost completed the
Grand Curve. I reached out from
some level of my being and made
contact with the Jewel. Laying my
will upon it, I called for a storm of
the red tornado variety which had
destroyed lago. I did not know
whether I could control that particu-
lar phenomenon in this particular
place, but I called for it neverthe-
less and directed it toward Brand.
Nothing happened immediately,
though I felt the Jewel functioning
to achieve something. Brand came

THE HAND OF OBERON

to the end, offered a final exertion
and passed from the Grand Curve.

I was right there behind him.

He knew it, too — somehow. His
blade was out the instant the pres-
sure was off, he gained a couple
feet faster than I thought he could,
got his left foot ahead of him,
turned his body and met my gaze
over the lines of our blades.

“Damned if you didn’t make it,”
he said, touching the tip of my blade
with his own. “You would never
have gotten here this soon if it we-
ren’t for the bitch on the horse,
though.”

“Nice way to talk about your sis-
ter,” I said, feinting and watching
him move to parry.

We were hampered, in that
neither of us could lunge without
departing the Pattern. I was further
hampered in not wanting to make
him bleed, yet. I faked a stop thrust
and he drew back, sliding his left
foot along the design to his rear. He
withdrew his right then, stamped it
and tried a head cut without pre-
liminaries. Damn it! I parried and
then riposted by pure reflex. I did
not want to catch him with the chest
cut I had thrown back at him, but
the tip of Grayswandir traced an arc
beneath his sternum. I heard a
humming in the air above us. I
could not, afford to take my eyes off
Brand, though. He glanced down-
ward and backed some more. Good.
A red line now decorated his
shirtfront where my cut had taken
him. So far, the material seemed to
be absorbing it. I stamped, feinted,
thrust, parried, stop thrust, bound
and unbound — everything I could
think of to keep him retreating. I
had the psychological edge on him

in that I had the greater reach and
we both knew I could do more
things with it, more quickly. Brand
was nearing the dark area. Just a
few more paces ...

I heard a sound like a single bell
chime, followed by a great roaring.
A shadow suddenly fell upon us, as
though a cloud had just occluded
the sun.

Brand glanced up. I think 1 could
have gotten him Just then, but he
was still a couple feet too far from
the target area.

He recovered immediately and
glared at me.

“Damn you, Corwin! That’s
yours, isn’t it?” he cried, and then
he attacked, discarding what caution
he still possessed.

Unfortunately, I was in a bad
position, as I had been edging up
on him, preparing to press him the
rest of the way back. 1 was exposed
and slightly off-balance. Even as 1
parried, I realized it would not be
sufficient, and I twisted and fell
back.

I struggled to keep my feet in
place as I went down. I caught my-
self with my right elbow and my
left hand. I cursed, as the pain was
too much and my elbow slid to the
side, dropping me to my right
shoulder.

But Brand’s thrust had gone by
me, and within blue haloes my feet
still touched the line. I was, out of
Brand’s reach for a death-thrust,
though he could still hamstring me.

I raised my right arm, still clutch-
ing Grayswandir, before me. I
began to sit up. As I did, I saw that
the red formation, yellow about the
edges, was now spinning directly
above Brand, crackling with sparks

GALAXY

and small lightnings, its roar now
changed to a wailing.

Brand took hold of his blade by
the forte and raised it above his
shoulder like a spear, pointed in my
direction.

I knew that I could not parry it,
that I could not dodge it.

With my mind, I reached out to
the Jewel and up to the formation in
the sky ...

There came a bright flash as a
small finger of lightning reached
down and touched his blade . . .

The weapon fell from his hand
and his hand flew to his mouth.
With his left hand, he clutched at
the jewel of Judgment, as if he
realized what I was doing and
sought to nullify it by covering the
stone. Sucking his fingers, he
looked upward, all of the anger
draining from his face to be re-
placed by a look of fear verging on
terror. The cone was beginning to
descend.

Turning then, he stepped onto the
blackened area, faced south, raised
both his arms and cried out some-
thing I could not hear above the
wailing.

The cone fell toward him, but he
seemed to grow two-dimensional as
it approached. His outline wavered.
He began to shrink — but it did not
seem a function of actual size, so
much as an effect of distancing. He
dwindled, dwindled, was gone, a
bare instant before the cone licked
across the area he had occupied.

With him went the Jewel, so that
I was left with no way of control-
ling the thing above me. -I did not
know whether it was better to main-
tain a low profile or to resume a
normal stance on the Pattern. I de-

cided on the latter, because the
whirlwind seemed to go for things
which broke the normal sequence. I
got back into a sitting position and
edged over to the line. Then I
leaned forward into a crouch, by
which time the cone began to rise.
The wailing retreated down the
scale as it withdrew. The blue fires
about my boots had subsided com-
pletely. I turned and looked to
Fiona. She motioned me to get up
and go on.

So I rose slowly, seeing that the
vortex above me continued to dissi-
pate as I moved. Advancing upon
the area where Brand had so re-
cently stood, I once again used
Grayswandir to guide me through.
The twisted remains of Brand’s
blade lay near the far edge of the
dim place.

I wished there were some easy
way out of the Pattern. It seemed
pointless to complete it now. But
there is no turning back once you
have set foot upon it, and I was ex-
tremely leary of trying the dark
route out. So I headed on toward
the Grand Curve. To what place, 1
wondered, had Brand taken him-
self? If I knew, I could command
the Pattern to send me after him,
once I reached the center. Perhaps
Fiona had an idea. Still, he would
probably head for a place where he
had allies. It would be senseless to
pursue him alone.

At least I had stopped the at-
tunement, I consoled myself.

Then I entered the Grand Curve.
The sparks shot up about me.

TO BE CONTINUED

★ * *

THE HAND OF OBERON

SCIENCE FACT

JERRY POURNELLE Ph. D.

A STEP

FARTHER

OUT

LASERS, GRASERS, AND MARXISTS

As I WRITE THIS there is confusion
about just what happened in the
Soviet Union last summer and fall.
According to one report the Soviets
have developed a powerful laser
system capable of blinding our
infra-red detection satellites; accord-
ing to another there was a large gas
fire in Siberia and everyone got ex-
cited over nothing.

No matter. Whatever happened in
1975 there is no secret that the
United States and the USSR are en-
gaged in a technological race to de-
velop large laser weapons. The
death rays of 1930’s science fiction
are coming, and someone 'will de-
velop them. Let’s take the opportun-

ity to look at lasers, grasers, nasers,
masers, and such other devices.

First, all these gadgets have one
thing in common. They produce
coherent radiation through stimu-
lated emission. That sounds ele-
mentary to about half my readers,
and incomprehensible to the rest, so
at the risk of boring some of you
(we know of at least one Nobel
prizewinner who regularly reads
Galaxy) I’d better explain.

Imagine a mob leaving a football
stadium after a game. You could
say that the stadium is radiating
people. They walk at different
speeds with different lengths of
stride, and they go in different di-

GALAXY

rections. Their motion is outward
from the stadium, but otherwise un-
predictable: it is incoherent.

Now imagine that they all issue
from the same stadium door; they
march in step, each stride the same
length, and they all go in the same
direction. Coherent radiation is like
that. It’s all the same frequency
(and thus if it is visible light is a
very pure color); it goes in the same
direction. Think of light as waves,
and all the waves have their peaks
and valleys at exactly the same
time. The result is a very powerful
beam.

This is done by stimulated emis-
sion, and that takes a bit of explain-
ing. All electromagnetic radiation
involves photons. A very small part
of the electromagnetic spectrum is
visible light. When the frequency
gets too high, the light is no longer
visible, and we call it ultra-violet.
Higher frequencies yet are x-rays,
gamma rays, and finally what are
called cosmic rays.

Below the red end of the spec-
trum is, not surprisingly, infra-red,
which we can detect as heat. At
lower frequencies still are radio,
radar, and television. In theory at
least a “laser” could be built which
operated in any frequency from
cosmic rays down through gamma
rays (grasers) through visible light
(lasers), down into the infra-red
(IR), through the radio frequencies
(masers), and finally down to the
frequencies we use to send power
through wires. However, since a

60-cycle wave (which sometimes
you hear as a hum if you put a
cheap radio set near an electrical
wire) has a wave-length something
like 3200 miles long, it’s unlikely
that anyone will ever want to build
a device to stimulate radiation at
that frequency.

In practice we don’t know how to
build stimulated emission devices at
all frequencies. One of the Navy’s
big problems is developing a power-
ful blue-green laser. Obviously such
a device would be useful, because
that’s the frequency of light that
best penetrates ocean water, and
would let submarines look a long
way ahead without giving off the
characteristic “ping” of a sonar.
There are, however, lasers at a
number of visible light frequencies,
masers which work the same way
but in radio frequencies, and IR las-
ers which operate at the low edge of
visibility.

They work this way: Take some
atoms that have the desired charac-
teristics. Excite an electron, so that
it jumps to a higher energy state. It
absorbs a photon when it does that.
Now “stimulate” the atom so that
the electron will jump back to the
lower energy state, giving up the
captured photon as it does. That
photon comes out at precisely the
same frequency each time. Now get
a lot of those atoms to do that at the
same time, confine the photons so
they can’t get out except when
going in exactly one direction, and
you’ve got a coherent beam. Its fre-

A STEP FARTHER OUT

quency will depend on the kind of
atoms you’ve excited.

Note what we’ve done. We
haven’t created any energy. Instead,
we’ve put in energy and got it out
again. Since no process is 100% ef-
ficient, we’ve lost some of our in-
put. On the other hand, the energy
we put in wasn’t coherent, and the
output was.

The energy input process is called
“pumping”. The first lasers, and
many of those for sale commer-
cially, are pumped by light. There
are, however, a number of other
ways to pump a laser. You can use
electro-magnetic energy by sur-
rounding the laser device with coils
of wire and putting juice through
them. You can also pump the laser
directly through nuclear radiation,
and we’ll come back to that. If you
want a portable laser, you might
also come up with a mirror system
that gathers sunlight, focusses it
into your device, and converts it to
laser energy. That’s not too useful
for military weapons unless by
agreement you won’t fight in the
shade, but it could be a valuable
technique.

However you pump the laser, and
whatever the frequency you’re us-
ing, the result is a beam each of
whose elements is exactly (well,
almost exactly) parallel. One space-
tracking system sends out a beam
that hasn’t fanned to more than a
few meters at satellite altitudes.
Thus you’ve concentrated a lot of
energy into a very narrow beam.

and that is why all the military
interest.

Of course there are a number of
other applications that have nothing
to do with war and destruction.
Laser beams bouncing off the re-
flector Neil Armstrong left at Tran-
quility measure the Earth-Moon dis-
tance within fractions of a centime-
ter, and that allows tests of great
importance to cosmologists — one
cosmological theory says that the
universal constant of gravitation (G)
isn’t constant at all, but changes
with time. Since the masses of Earth
and Moon don’t change much, a
good test of whether or not G is
changing is just how stable that
Earth-Moon distance is. Incidentally,
the last I heard the experimental re-
sults indicate that G is not chang-
ing, but stay tuned; there’s just
enough error in the observations to
let a few cosmologists hang onto
the G-is-changing theory. Most,
however, seem to have given it up.

We’ve all heard about some other
civilian uses for lasers, such as
communication, surveying instru-
ments that need no flag-man and are
a thousand times more accurate than
the old transit-target-and-chain sys-
tem, satellite tracking devices, laser
surgery to bum out just the cells the
physician wants killed without
harming those on either side (and
yes, lasers can be focussed that
small), and all the rest. Lasers are
one major reason for retiring the
slide rule: laser accuracies allow
manufacture of the electronic chips

GALAXY

that are the heart of pocket comput-
ers. (It seems unfair, since the
laser’s inventor was a slide-rule ad-
dict, but there’s nothing to be done
about it. Dietzgen has gone out of
the slide-rule business, and there
you are. Progress.)

* * *

So. We have a source of nar-
rowly focussed energy. Obviously,
if we can get enough energy focus-
sed into a narrow enough beam, we
have a death ray. Add more and we
have a disintegrator. The military
advantages are enormous. No longer
is there a time-of-flight problem.
For all practical purposes your shot
hits the instant it is fired, which
means you don’t need to track the
target, whether it’s a tank or an
ICBM; just locate it, and zap!, it’s
dead. Also, you’ve launched noth-
ing, and you can refire your weapon
as fast as you can pump up its
atoms. You haven’t contaminated
your defense environment by blow-
ing off chemical or atomic weapons
and thus producing smoke or ioniza-
tion or something else you can’t see
through.

It shouldn’t be any surprise that
military people sponsor a very great
deal of laser research. Most of it is
secret and it takes a lot of digging
to find out how well they’re doing,
but from hints that turn up here and
there, laser weapons are doing quite
well. A few years ago there were
rumors that lasers were used to

knock fist-sized holes in Army
tanks at about a hundred feet. A
year ago last fall I was told by a
usually reliable source that the
airplane-eating laser was proved out
to be practical. Now we have the
rumors of the Soviet laser blinding
our IR satellites. Even if it didn’t
happen, it wouldn’t be too surpris-
ing.

As I write this there aren’t too
many details known. According to
Aviation Week {AW) a publication
not generally known for being
wrong, on several occasions the US
IR-watching satellites were suddenly
blinded by a very great deal of IR-
ftequency energy coming into their
receptors. That could happen in
several ways. One, there was just a
lot of IR coming up out of the
Soviet Union. A very large fire, for
example, would do it. Another way
would be for a smaller amount of
IR to be focussed exactly onto our
satellite. Nothing could do that but
a laser.

Again according to AW, when
this first happened US weather
satellites were called on to show us
the fire in Siberia. They hadn’t seen
one. USAF also launched one of
their lower-altitude spy satellites (I
don’t know what they’re called now-
adays; they used to be called
SAMOS, and there was a SAMOS
project listed in the Pentagon phone
book, but if you dialled the number
someone answered “Weather Ob-
servation’’) and it didn’t find any
fire. The AW article stirred up a

A STEP FARTHER OUT

fuss (“panic” was one of the mild-
er words used to describe reactions
in the aerospace industry) and there
was subsequently a Department of
Defense statement to the effect that
nothing had happened, and someone
else reported that it was all a big
false alarm over a natural gas fire in
Siberia, and if you take DOD’s
word for everything they tell
you — you do, don’t you? — then
that’s all there is to the story.

If you have an abnormal distrust
in DOD flacks, you might react as
did a USAF general officer friend,
who pointed out that the early warn-
ing satellites — they’re supposed to
watch for the IR flare of Soviet
rockets, including ICBM’s — are at
synchronous altitude, and if you can
shine enough energy on them at that
altitude you’re a long way toward
burning holes into something at,
say, ICBM re-entry altitudes. At
that point the hackles start rising on
the back of your neck, or they do
on mine, and if you’re not scared,
maybe you’d better rethink the
problem.

And here I’ve got to say a few
words about politics, and I hope I
don’t lose too much of my reader-
ship.

* * *

In this era of “overkill”, surely
no one but a madman would risk
nuclear war. One hears that said
until it becomes a part of one’s
mental furniture. Unfortunately, it
isn’t true.

100

One need not be mad to begin
nuclear war. One may quite ration-
ally do it. Perhaps “rational” is the
wrong word. Perhaps I should say
“logically” instead. It all depends
on whether or not you regard Marx-
ism as “rational”. Certainly good
Marxists do, and in fact every
Soviet university student is required
to take some forty semester-hours of
courses in the subject; and one of
the tenets of Marxism is not only
that it is rational, but that it is the
only rational political philosophy.

Marxism claims to be an objec-
tive science of history with predic-
tive powers. Like Hari Seldon’s
Plan in the old Asimov Foundation
series, Marxism doesn’t pretend to
be exact. Variations are possible,
and even errors are possible; but
Marxism is, say the Marxists, the
only objective science of history,
and in its broad predictions it is in-
fallible. Marxism rejects any
religiously-derived values and ethics
and goals for the human race; Mar-
xists have only one source of ethical
values: to further progress, which is
defined as moving toward the ulti-
mate social order, namely the class-
less society. That which brings us
nearer that goal is progressive and
good. That which puts off man’s
final state is regressive, reactionary,
and evil. No individual person is
important, and indeed concern for
individuals in preference to the ul-
timate historical goal is mere
bourgeois sentimentality.

This most emphatically does not

GALAXY

mean that Marxists are villains or
that they do not love their families
and friends; only that to allow love
for friends or families to stand in
the way of progress is, by defini-
tion, regressive, reactionary,
bourgeois, and condemnable. There-
fore no Marxist could in conscience
refuse to start World War III so
long as he could be certain that (1)
the human race would survive it,
and (2) the outcome would be the
world revolution and the triumph of
socialism. It is as if a convinced
Christian were truly to believe that
he could only bring about the Sec-
ond Coming by starting Armaged-
don.

Now naturally no one is going to
start WW III on a suspicion, a
rumor, or sloppy calculations. One
precept of the Leninist branch of
Marxism (one which I suspect Karl
Marx would condemn, but I may
be wrong) is “Do not endanger the
homeland of Socialism.’* This al-
lows Marxists to be good Russian
patriots, and certainly tempers reck-
less adventurism. However, it is not
required for all of the Soviet Union
to survive WW III, so long as
enough lives through to bring the
Revolution and its attendent benefits
to all mankind. What is enough
might in theory be a scientific ques-
tion (to Marxists all social problems
are scientific questions) but in the
real world any decision is likely to
be affected by the normal senti-
ments of mankind, or at least one
sincerely hopes so. Note, though,

A STEP FARTHER OUT

that such influence is intellectually
condemned, and that the more edu-
cated the Soviet citizen, the more
intellectual training in Marxism he
has enjoyed.

So. Have we demonstrated that it
would be rational to begin WW IE
provided only that the military au-
thorities could assure the Presidium
that (1) the Soviets would survive,
and (2) there would be no effective
opposition to communism through-
out the world; and that this is en-
tirely independent of the level of
casualties the Soviet Union and the
rest of the world might sustain?
Now I am not insane enough to
think that most Soviet citizens, or
even most Party members, think
that way; but they are supposed to
think that way, they teach their uni-
versity students to think that way,
and some of them talk as if they re-
ally think that way; and there is no
intellectually acceptable argument
within the confines of Marxism to
refute the proposition.

Thus, what happens if one morn-
ing the Marshal of the Soviet Union
reports that “If the war begins to-
morrow, we will lose 40% of our
population. We will retain at least
50% of our industry. The Red
Army will occupy all of Europe to
the Atlantic coast within 3 weeks.
The United States, Canada, Au-
stralia,, and New Zealand will effec-
tively cease to exist and certainly
will have no military power what-
ever. China will be neutralized and
if it becomes necessary will be re-

101

duced to the stone age. What are your
orders?”

In my judgment that would not
be a safe world to live in because
someone in the Presidium might
well find it tempting — and would
the others have effective arguments?
Be powerful enough to halt the truly
convinced Marxists? It seems to me
a bad gamble, and far better for all
of us that we never give the Sus-
lov’s of this world such a tempta-
tion.

* * *

Nonsense. Idiocy. Etc. Pournelle
has finally gone off his rocker, and
probably was deranged all the time.
In the first place, no one could im-
agine keeping national power after
losing 40% of their population.

But they took losses of over 30%
in WW II and emerged infinitely
more powerful when the war ended
than when it began.

Even so. There’s no way to hold
casualties that low. The US has mil-
lions and millions of megatons and
everybody knows that WW III
would end civilization and indeed
very nearly exterminate mankind;
certainly it would end that techolog-
ical civilization that you, Pournelle,
are so proud of and from which you
expect such great things.

I wish I believed that. Unfortu-
nately I know better. There is a way
to fight strategic nuclear war. There
is a war plan that will neutralize
most of those US weapons. I’m giv-

ing away no secrets by describing
it.

First, suppose we get rid of the
airplanes, or at least don’t replace
the poor old B-52’s which were,
after all, designed in the post-WW
era and were built in the 50’s. Sec-
ond, note that of our missile subs,
many are in harbor at any given
time, and can’t get out on less than
a couple hours’ notice. Scratch half
the sub force, killed in harbor.

Next, imagine that the Soviets
have many more subs than we do
(and in fact according to Jane’ s
they do) and that they routinely
send them out to follow our misslie
boats around (as, I am told, they
now do). Scratch more of the sub
fleet. If we’re lucky maybe ten subs
will get off their birds. That’s about
150 missiles; not an impossible
number to intercept if you’ve got
laser weapons. We’ll come back to
that in a moment.

But there are all those Minuteman
and Titan missiles. Yes: 1052 in all,
52 Titan and 1000 Minuteman. All
land based. All in locations mapped
precisely down to the last inch. (I
could obtain such maps with a few
hundred dollars and a summer of
work, and if I could we may be
sure the Soviets have done it.) The
land-based missiles ean be dealt
with.

The technique is ealled pin-down,
and it works this way. First, blind
the IR satellites, so that the first in-
dication that anything is coming out
of the Soviet Union is from

102

GALAXY

B-Mews at Fairbanks, Gander,
Thule, etc. If you want to be really
sneaky fire the first shots from
submarines. In any event with
MIRV’s (Multiple Independently-
targeted Re-entry Vehicles) you
need only one bird to drop a war-
head at each Minuteman and Titan
complex. Explode the warheads at
optimum burst height.

Repeat every five minutes. One
warhead explodes over each mis-
siles farm.

I don’t know the exact time of
powered flight for Minuteman but
it’s easy to show that it has to be
more than four minutes, and Titan
has about the same rise time. The
birds are very vulnerable during
boost-phase. It doesn’t take a lot of
disturbance to knock them way off
course — after all, a tiny nudge at
this end is miles and miles after in-
continental flight. Not one of those
birds is going to hit its designated
target.

Meanwhile, behind that train of
one-every-four-minutes pindown
missiles there comes a wave of
ICBM’s which will finish the job.

Insanity? Yes, in the sense that
it’s hard to imagine sane people
doing it. No, in that it makes per-
fect sense if you believe the only
destiny of man is to achieve the
classless society, and the United
States is the only obstacle in the
way of eternal peace and happiness
for all.

What evidence have we that any-
one might do this? Only that when

A STEP FARTHER OUT

the US decided we had
“enough” — that is, had achieved
nuclear sufficiency — we stopped
building birds. We haven’t put a
new missile into a silo in a decade.
It was thought that one reason for
“international tension” was that the
Soviets felt strategically inferior to
us. They were nervous because we
might be contemplating preventive
or pre-emptive war. All that would
vanish when they achieved parity.
Therefore, we stop building
strategic weapons and let them
catch up.

They caught up.

They kept going. They’ve got a
lot more birds than we tlo, and as
best I can tell, they’re building
them still. What for? It’s a costly
effort and of no rational value —
unless you define rational as I just
have.

* * *

So now what? Should the US
spend a great deal more money on
nuclear weapons? Increase our
over-kill capability? (Note that if
you assume you’ll lose part of your
force because you intend to let the
other guy attack first, you need
“overkill” in order to have “suffi-
ciency”. Note also that the Soviets
have long since gone past us in
“overkill” capacity, and are still
pouring concrete and filling silos
with birds.)

I won’t pretend to knowledge of
optimum strategic mix. I’m far out

103

of date and intend to stay that
way — don’t want a clearance. I’d
rather be able to say what I want
without worry. It’s certainly possi-
ble that we need some new strategic
offense weapons, and to update
those we have.

I do, however, have strong feel-
ings about concentrating entirely on
offensive weapons. Air Force gen-
erals have long downgraded
strategic defense. Air war strategists
are taught “nobody ever won a war
by protecting himself’ and similar
maxims. Defensive weapons are no
doubt a fine thing, but mostly they
suck up scarce defense funds that
should be going into weapons we
can use to knock out the other guy
before he can do any harm to our
people. Given a good enough
strategic offense, we won’t need de-
fensive weapons because either we
will have deterred the other guy so
he doesn’t start the war in the first
place, or he will be knocked out
quickly and effectively if he does.
So say a number of generals. I have
never agreed.

I don’t agree now. I believe a de-
fensive arms race makes enormous
sense. Yes, and I supported the
now-discontinued ABM system,
too, even though I knew full well
that Spartan wasn’t likely to be
worth a hoot in hell.

Why?

Well, because the really expen-
sive technology and the really tricky
problems of ABM have nothing to
do with Spartan. Don’t get me

104

wrong. The kill mechanism is the
key problem to effective anti-ICBM
weapons. Until you have something
that will deliver lethality you can’t
shoot down ICBM’s. On the other
hand, even if you have a marvelous
kill mechanism, you can’t use it un-
less you can detect and locate your
target.

That was the expensive part of
our now-defunct ABM system. De-
tection and tracking. Hardened
radars. Phased-array radars, which
look like solid concrete barns, have
been known in theory for a long
time, but in practice they’re hide-
ously complex. They work this
way.

In the old-fashioned radar the an-
tenna moved. A big dish was
steered mechanically, and your
tracking computer “knew’’ where
the dish was pointed at the time it
received the blip returned from the
target. The antenna was vulnerable
to enemy weapons — even chemical
weapons, sabotage, and small-arms
fire — and the mechanical parts
caused terrible errors unacceptable
at thousand-mile ranges.

Phased-array radars have
thousands of small antennae buried
in a lump of concrete: Nothing
moves. Instead the various antenna
elements are excited in a precise
computer-controlled sequence and
the returns monitored by computer.
The whole thing is expensive in
money, and a few years ago expen-
sive in terms of needed research to
get it working.

GALAXY

We got that much out of our dead
ABM. Presumably we have the an-
tennae and computers, and need
only a kill mechanism.

The laser is the obvious answer
to that. What kind I leave to the
experts. The theoretically best
would be x-ray or gamma-ray
(graser) frequencies since those
would penetrate atmosphere best
and deliver the greatest lethality per
beam cross-section. Missile-killing
lasers are likely to be large, very
large, and we need a great deal of
work on them.

They may need a new form of
pumping. We have now a few
nuclear-energy pumped lasers — that
is, a small unshielded reactor pours
neutrons and other high-energy nu-
clear particles directly into the laser,
which transforms their energy into
useful coherent radiation. (It is even
proposed for the future that
nuclear-pumped lasers be put into
orbit to light cities at night and keep
streets warm in winter. Possible but
I’d think unlikely.)

Certainly the efficiency of lasers
needs work. When you pump
enough energy in to kill missiles at
great distances, you’d best not
waste much in your laser lest you
melt your own system. Methods of
steering the mirrors must be de-
veloped.

None of this, though, looks all
that difficult. There was a time
when really big lasers were
“theoretically impossible” but them
days is gone forever. Somebody's

going to do it. And we will be in a
new military era.

There are also enormous civilian
benefits. Really big lasers can put
mass into orbit, cutting down on the
costs of entering the Third Industrial
Revolution. (See this column in the
two previous issues of Galaxy for
more on that.) I do want to em-
phasize, though, that I’m not argu-
ing for laser development as ABM
merely as a sneaky way to get space
industries.

No. Big lasers, coupled with al-
ready developed phased-array radar
technology, will yield an ABM sys-
tem capable of handling a few
hundred incoming missiles. It may
be chauvinistic of me, but I’d rather
we had that capability and the
Soviets didn’t.

That’s highly unlikely — especially
so if what our IR satellites saw was
not a Siberian gas fire — so I’ll settle
for both of us having the ABM.
Strategically that would make the
pin-down attack impossible, and
any first-strike war plan hideously
complex. I’ve discussed the proba-
ble diplomatic consequences in an
earlier column. The resulting bi-
polar world has its problems, but
it’s one we could live in.

What I really wouldn’t like to see
is too much temptation put in the
way of the Party Theoreticians over
there. Maybe it isn’t likely —
reverently, I hope to God it isn’t
likely — but might they believe what
they’ve been teaching the last forty
years? ★

A STEP FARTHER OUT

105

WIND

MUSIC

Uana

J<i

Democracy Is the perfect
system — In Its place.

On Spindrift the wind is everything.
It bears moisture from the seas to
the thirsty land, and in certain sea-
sons, carries the thoughts of the
people. /4s the prow of a ship forces
spray, so the planet's winds, influ-
enced by the two parent moons,
drive its inhabitants. It seldom rains
on Spindrift. . .

The day’s sensations were com-
forting if unfamiliar: The rhythmic
thrumming of an obelisk tree frag-
mented with sighs as spindrift
brushed its crown of fronds. There
was a purposeful whir of wings
from a passing dragonfly, skimming
the puddle of water outside the door
for food. On the very edge of per-
ception a human worked his nets,
the feather-light touch of his aware-
ness intruding only momentarily
into the fullness of Galan’s own.

It had been a good season. The
tidelands teemed with life, the spin-
drift was gentle and dependable,
even the midges were less trou-
blesome than usual. Beyond the
stand of trees that fronted the
house, Galan could see fish Jumping
on the surface of the salt-pond. The
giller’s nets would be full this
night.

Still, she missed her crystal
mountain pond, the vivid bloodleaf
at her door, the warm glint of fire-
blight and the purity of baby’s breath
nestled in the tumbled rocks of
home. Here in the lowlands there
were no passing ghostweeds, no
mountain gibby purring on the open
hearth of a quiet evening, no music
in the wind. Here there was only
the dull blue of fen groundsel and
gray of treewort, and the ever-
present waterwind. The colors of the
lowlands muted and ran together in
a filmy haze, which was good for
the fish that lived in the salt-ponds,
and for the beaded lizard eyeing her
suspiciously from the corner of
Jamie’s graystone house; good for
Jamie, who was a giller. But not for
a musician, whose duty and plea-
sure lay above the fens and
marshes, on mountainside where the
wind was dry and laden with the
stuff of threnodies and bagatelles.

She loved Jamie, but she felt no
sense of shelter in his dwelling, nor
much sympathy for the hardships of
his trade. Nor could he, for his
part, understand her love of the
heights and the music she found
there. It was, Galan knew, an im-
perfect match at best. The week of
years they had passed in lovemak-
ing attested to its quality, but it said
nothing of their other needs. And
now he had asked her, for the first
time, to have a child.

More sensitive than most, Galan
knew the depth of his need. She
could receive as well as focus an

WIND MUSIC

107

emotional response; it was this tal-
ent that made her what she was, a
transmitter of music to those whose
sensitivity was dull and whose feel-
ings were borne on chaotic winds,
to be scattered meaninglessly over
the world. She could channel those
emotions, play them back to their
sources organized and strengthened
into chords of meaning; but it re-
quired fierce concentration, mainly
to dampen her own emotions.

She felt a twinge of resentment
that he had asked her now, with
Trine approaching, to decide such a
difficult question. But she couldn’t
really blame him, either. Because
she was more skilled than he in
controlling emotion, the giller knew
of her only what she had let him
know, in carefully phrased re-
sponses and gently modulated reac-
tions. He would be appalled to feel
the true extent of her denial of the
life he lived, her revulsion at the
thought of spending the years it
would take to rear a child here,
away from her own element. And a
child did need the polarity of two
parents; that was the custom and it
was a good one. She was not pre-
pared to flout it and knew Jamie to
be even less so.

Galan must live here or he must
come to her, and that he would not
do. He had his own priorities, after
all.

The thought, too heavy to bear,
came inevitably; Yet I must give him
an answer. And if it is no, he will
find another. One who'll be willing

to share his portion of the world.
But even more unbearable: Can I
give up the windsong? Leave the
highwind to wallow here, in mud
and salt, for a month of years?
No .. .

Tired of wrangling with the
hangman’s choice, she got up and
went into the house. At the door
she hesitated, to see that all was in
order before she left. Her glance
lingered for a moment on the pallet
in the corner, seeing more than its
readiness for his use at day’s end.
Why should their joining be so
complete, their pleasure in one
another so sure, when all else was
wrong? Oh Jamie, Jamie . . .

She shrugged away the sudden
pang of need, and made herself
look from the pallet to the rack of
pipes, the table clear of breakfast
clutter, the planked floor swept
clean. Everything would be in order
when she returned. She would be
gone, but he would expect that. She
had already stayed longer than was
usual, and his proposal would need
time to consider.

She placed the protective head-
piece firmly on her head. Usually,
she left herself open to sensations
on the long path home; this time,
she would pay heed to her own
emotions, without interference from
the outside world. Perhaps she
could weave a solution from their
tangled skein, one acceptable if not
beautiful to them both.

But as she turned mountainward
her heavy heart belied the hope.

108

GALAXY

ir -k ir

Candace stopped in midpath, feast-
ing her weary eyes and wearier soul
on Galan’s dwelling. From her van-
tage point above the escarpment, on
the edge of which hung the house,
she could see the spring-fed pond
alive with motion even though it lay
sheltered from the wind. So, she
elated, even now, seven days before
Trine, the wind has orchestral
force. What a fugue it will provide!

She hoped Galan’s windmantle
was strongly built so the delicate
reeds of the windwall would not be
buffeted meaninglessly. The
thought, seemingly motile, drew the
wind at her afresh. Her headpiece
strained away from her close-
cropped hair with such force that
Candace made to save it, even
though she knew it was fastened se-
curely under her chin. The coarse
brown cloth of her cloak twisted
and flapped about her path-weary
legs, reminding her once more of
the hours they had carried her up
the leeward side of the mountain,
and of the days before when they
were cramped in the tiny passenger
space of a wheeled troika drawn by
three slavering moorhounds. The
journey from her own windwall
atop a smaller peak to the north had
been a long one. The rest of her
body, too, was reminding her in
various ways of the years it had
served her before bringing her here,
to journey’s end.

This will be your last concert
away from home, old woman, she
told herself. You’ll not be a lissome
maid again, not in this life.

She straightened her sagging
shoulders and willed her legs to
move her yet a little farther, and
woodenly, they complied. She went
slowly down the rubbled path to-
ward the rippled shimmer of pond
and adamantine glow of roof. How
many men, she wondered as she
picked her way among the litter of
stones, had it taken to drag the
planks for that roof over moor and
up mountainside? How many to fas-
ten them there on the edge of noth-
ingness, securely enough to with-
stand these many generations of
windforce. A hundred? Two
hundred? She couldn’t guess. Even
to cut the rock-hard wood of an
obelisk tree took almost superhuman
strength and will. She had seen the
process once and never did she
forget it. Sweat-streaked men with
hand-axes, hacking first, and then
hewing with chisels, all to wrest a
single plank from the sixty-foot
length of trunk. She had been fasci-
nated by their patience, their deter-
mination surely as hard as the
obelisk itself, and had remarked to
her companion (a poet whose name
was Tong forgotten), that it was al-
most an art-form.

She did remember his retort:
“Nonsense. Art is a celebration of
the natural, not the destruction of it,
for whatever useful purpose. At best
this is craft. But art? Hardly!”

WIND MUSIC

109

Candace had not pursued the no-
tion, for the poet was speaking truth
as most would see it, but still she
wondered. She had been taught as
he had, that the purpose of all art
was to interpret and illuminate that
which already existed. Nature was
the ultimate reality, and discovering
man’s place in it was the goal of all
thought and all artistic effort. There
was no such activity as true crea-
tion, just as there was no such state
as perfection. The closest one could
come to either of these impossibles
lay in discovery.

But the thought had always nag-
ged her: What would it be like to
create music? Not glean it as we do
from the wind, nor from the feelings
borne on its wings, but make it,
fashion it, ourselves . . .from our-
selves . . . could it thus generate
emotion?

That’s blasphemy, for sure . . .
or trumpery. She chuckled aloud.
But a granddame of advanced
years is entitled to a bit of irrev-
erent nonsense now and again.

“Hoa Candace! Caaandace!”
The shout came clearly to her, car-
ried on a strong updraft, then tat-
tered away on a crosswind. She saw
the slender figure of Galan round
pond’s edge and step pathward.
Now there’s your lissome maid, her
tired old mind observed. Look how
she scrabbles up those rocks.
Energy is indeed wasted on the
young. She stopped near a patch of
mouse-ear, the soft furry leaves
windwhipped and shredded. So let

110

the young expend it and save your
own, old woman.

Galan covered the remaining dis-
tance in half the time it would have
taken Candace, and with gleeful
huffing and whooshing, threw her-
self on the older woman.

“Candace! So long . . . since
. . . your dear presence . . . whuff!”
“Slow down, my girl. You
wouldn’t want to topple an old lady
from her tired feet, now would
you?”

“Old lady, indeed!” Galan
laughed, then stood back to look
her up and down. The thin, brown-
clad shoulders were trapped firmly
in the young one’s grip. “What’s
this?” she asked in measured tones.
“A mourning cloak?”

Candace nodded slowly. “For
William, I’m sorry to tell.”

“And I to hear,” the girl said
softly. She folded the old woman to
her, gently, then released her. “But
come, you’ve been many days
without a good meal and a soft bed,
and there’s both waiting below.”
“Let’s get to it, then,” Candace
said, “before you have to fetch it
here.”

* * *

Later they sat, the old woman
and the young one, listening to the
cheerful sound of the fire. A gibby
had honored the house with its
tawny presence and lay purring at
their feet. On the hearth a jug of
candlebeny wine was mulling; its
spicy fragrance filled the room and

GALAXY

tantalized their noses. Outside, the
wind whistled and moaned.

“And what of Stefan?” Candace
asked. She was lying on a low pal-
let near the fire, sated with a supper
of spoonbread and cheese.

Galan, seated on the hearth to
watch over the progress of the
wine, tossed her head impatiently.
She did not tolerate Stefan well.
“Oh, he’ll be here, to be sure. But
when, the wind knows, not I.”

“He sent you no message,
then ... ah, well, he’s young and
cocksure. But he is a talented mu-
sician, right enough. Humility will
come with time. Then even Stefan
may be surprised at what he can
do.”

Galan dipped the wine into
bowls, handed one to Candace. The
steaming brew was heady and
sweet; the old woman sighed her
pleasure.

“In Stefan’s case, it may take a
great deal of time,” Galan observed
dryly, but without rancor. “Take
care. It’s hot as a geyser.”

“And as wonderful,” Candace
said, sipping despite the warning.
“It was worth the journey, just for
this.”

They drank silently for a while,
wrapped in comfort and well-being.
The gibby stirred and opened his
great green eyes, fixing them both
with an impassive gaze.

“What a fine big fellow he is,”
Candace said. “Will he stay long?”

“A night or two at best. His
fancy is even more free than the

WIND MUSIC

rest of his breed.” Galan reached
for him, stroked the white fur under
his pointed chin. “Is that not so,
gibcat?” In answer, he yawned
enormously and flopped his length,
as great as Galan ’s own, sideways
to give her more area.

Candace chuckled. “He’s mind-
ful of his pleasure, too, I see. Not
too independent for all that, are
you, gibby?”

“We humans could take a lesson
from him,” Galan said. “You’ll
never see a gibcat who’ll let himself
be tethered in exchange for a little
stroking now and then, for all he
likes his pleasure.”

“I read once, I forget where, that
a gibcat’ s name comes from the
oldest times; it means ‘one that’s
castrated,’ from an attempt by our
ancestors to domesticate him.”
Galan looked properly horrified.
“Castrate such a one as this! But
surely they could see it would do no
good, either to the beast or the one
who’d own it.”

“It may be our ancestors were
lackwits,” the old woman said.
“Though they probably thought
themselves wise enough.”

The girl sat in silence for a time,
considering this barbarism. Her face
was bathed in firelight, giving her a
mellowness beyond her years.

Candace caught herself blinking
and made an effort to be wakeful.
The combination of food and wine
and fire was having its effect. Her
body yearned for sleep, but there
was much Galan needed to share,

111

that was clear. Candace had been
aware of the younger woman’s tur-
moil even before she removed the
protective headpiece to allow the
full communication their mutual af-
fection demanded. Speech was suf-
ficient for business with strangers,
but hardly adequate for the heart’s
more pressing needs.

“So,” the old woman said at
length, “I think I’m not the only
one here wrapped in widow’s
weeds. Would you share your grief?
Perhaps it will help me to forget my
own?”

Galan fixed her eyes on the gib-
cat and neither her chin nor the
hand that stroked the fur trembled
in the least. But she was ripe for
weeping; Candace could feel the
tears form in her own thoughts, as
poignantly as if they were her own.
She felt a great surge of sorrow for
the stricken girl, whose loneliness
was terrible. Maybe more terrible
than my own, Candace thought.
Here is the loneliness of choice.
While mine . . . death gives us no
choices. Could I bear my loneliness,
if William were still within my reach?

‘‘Speak of it, why don’t you,”
she invited. “Your heart may not
be less sore for the telling, but at
least it will be open. Grief should
not be hoarded. There’s plenty
enough of it to share.”

Speak Galan did, for past her in-
tention, for she knew the older
woman was tired. Yet once un-
locked the emotion poured out of it-
self; she could not have stopped it

112

any more than she could keep the
waters of the pond from flooding
the house if the penstock were to
give way. In simple phrases and a
complex miasma of emotions the
story of the giller and his simple
human request came forth; her de-
nial of him, and the heartrending
knowledge that he would seek ful-
fillment elsewhere; her bitterness
that she’d been called upon to
choose between her life and her
love; her certainty that she would
never find the latter as satisfying
with another, nor the former as re-
warding as it had been in the past.

The old woman listened and felt,
giving what comfort there was and
saying little. The gibcat purred and
the fire died. Near dawn they slept.

it -k -k '

Stefan arrived in five days’ time,
only two days before Trine. He was
nervous and impatient, for which
Galan and Candace made allow-
ances. This was his first major effort as
a musician, for Trine coincided with
perigee only once in seven years.
Faeder and Modor, the two big
moons, and Kind, the tiny moonlet,
exerted their fuir force upon the
winds and tides on such occasion,
with the winds rising to gale force
and the emotional tenor of the
people at its peak. It was said that
the winds were responsible for the
ability to transmit feeling and
thought. That before coming to
Spindrift, people had to rely solely
on words.

GALAXY

Deeper thinkers ascribed the ef-
fect not to the winds, but to the
moons themselves, saying that the
orbs were possessed of some mystic
power, and that when all three were
in the sky their power was com-
bined and somehow amplified.
Deeper thinkers yet believed that the
power was not mystic at all, but
merely some unknown physical
force emanating from the orbiting
bodies, but they did not speculate
thus openly.

Whatever the cause — winds,
moons ... or something inherent in
the people themselves invocable
only by belief in some outer
agency — when the three moons rode
the heavens together, the effect was
of full communal telepathy. The
normal ability to transmit only
deepest emotions became Total
Awareness.

By formalizing it, madness had
been averted in the early days of
Spindrift’s settlement. Through art,
the thoughts focused on humankind
rather than one’s own petty con-
cerns. Trine was traditionally a time
of catharsis through the celebration
of the universal; a time when the
people of Spindrift knew each other
with an intimacy that would have
been, they thought, too painful if
not for the ritual associated with its
observation. For an event of such
magnitude a single musician was
inadequate. Candace, Galan and
Stefan would perform together, a
Triple Fugue, with the people de-
termining the motif.

They would begin to arrive dur-
ing the daylight hours, camping at
every level up the mountain, with
the earliest enjoying the highest and
best positions. At dusk, when the
largest of the moons glimmered
wanly forth, the musicians would
prepare themselves to receive; only
when Modormoon, next in size,
showed her penumbral shadow,
would the windmantle be raised and
the concert begin. On the mountain
itself the moonflowers which
bloomed only during the full of the
parent moons would burst trium-
phantly open, their pungent fra-
grance carried aloft on the highwind
along with their seed.

The next day the people would
leave as quietly as they had come,
but behind them would remain the
offerings they had brought in pay-
ment for their experience; moor
hens and mountainberries, pepper-
corns and truffles, lengths of midge
net and blocks of dried peat, sacks
of millet and rootcrop, and here and
there a moss agate or geyserite,
polished to glowing perfection.

It was a truly unique event, and
therefore Galan and Candace were
inclined to be forebearing when Ste-
fan demanded to know if they were
ready to do their parts. It was not
until he insisted upon inspecting the
reeds, to see for himself that the
windways were in proper alignment
and repair, that Galan lost control
of her temper.

“And do you think, Stefan,’’ she
demanded, “that I would misknow

WIND MUSIC

113

my own wall? It’s a perfect instru-
ment, Trine or no, but if your
nerves demand proof, inspect all
you like!”

‘‘My dear Galan,” said the boy
(for he was hardly more than that,
Galan reminded herself forcefully),
‘‘I am aware that you have but re-
cently come through a windstorm of
your own making, but I trust it
won’t affect your performance as it
is now affecting your temper
... the people deserve better than
that.”

‘‘I’ll guard my emotions, Stefan,
and leave you to yours. Just mind
you don’t overstep your bounds.
Remember you are, for all your tal-
ent, but a beginner.”

Their anger vibrated the air. Can-
dace, having lived through many
perigees and not a few Trines,
sought to restore calm. ‘‘Come,
come,” she pleaded. ‘‘The three of
us will be together when the wind
roars through that wall. It will be
difficult enough for each of us to
stanch the inner flow of feelings,
the better to feel the larger flow
from without; this turmoil amongst
ourselves won’t be of any help in
the task.”

Galan’s anger abated in the face
of the old woman’s appeal. But Ste-
fan still radiated resentment. His
heart burns with jealousy, the old
woman observed, for what he feels
Galan has that he is more deserving
of Compared to the mountain be-
neath our feet, Stefan’s is little bet-
ter than a hillock.

Tossing his fair straight hair, the
boy determined to have the last
word: ‘‘I am glad that one of us is
heart-free and hopeful of the fu-
ture,” he flung at them. ‘‘If I’m
any reader of the winds at all, the
mood this year is joyous and thank-
ful of nature’s bounty. The two of
you’d be better suited to feed them
back a dirge, as if they’d been in-
flicted with pestilence and
drought.”

Now it was Candace who flared.
Young scalawag. Tell me how to
practice my art, will he? Yet her
voice when she spoke betrayed no
emotion, and she forced the inner
calm to dampen its presence in her
thoughts. ‘‘You speak thought-
lessly, my young friend. Be as-
sured that Galan and I will be as
ready as your unpracticed self
when the great event arrives. And as
for the interpretation, it would be
more professional if you’d await the
presence of those people you be-
spoke, before you try to judge their
thought.” Her face wrinkled in
mischief. ‘‘Besides, it may be that
the people need what Galan and I
have to share with them more than
they need a smug reflection of
themselves. Who’s to say? Surely
not a young musician making ready
for his first Trine.”

He was staring at her, aghast.
‘‘You would attempt to ... to in-
fluence the music? You joke badly
with me, Candace. I nevet did take
you for a mossback, but neither did
I think you a heretic. Moonstruck,

114

GALAXY

the both of you. I’m going to the
peak for solitude, to see if I can
mend the hole you’ve made in my
objectivity. I only hope your two
minds are as suitably composed
when I return as my unpracticed
one!”

With that, he stomped from the
house.

Candace and Galan exchanged
glances, and when he was out of
earshot, burst into peals of laughter.

‘‘That pompous, insensi-
tive ...” Galan began, and Can-
dace finished the thought,
‘‘. . . rockwortl" They tumbled to
the hearthside pallets, gasping and
holding their sides. A harlequin ta-
ble, knocked to the floor when
Galan missed her aim, spilled its
contents, but in their mirth they
didn’t notice.

”... Remember now, see that
your mind is . . .”

“Suitably composed. Quite so!”
“Moonstruck, are we?” Candace
said when their laughter had sub-
sided. “A mooncalf himself, and
telling me I’m struck!”

“Ah, well, as you said before,
he’s young. If we were not tolerant
of youthful offense, there’d be few
adults in the world.”

“Truly spoken, Galan. You wear
your own maturity well.”

The girl sobered and threw a dis-
comfited glance at her companion.
“If only it were so. Stefan’s right
to this extent: my objectivity is
strained at best.”

“I have a premonition suitable

for Trine,” said the old woman.
“The answer you seek will come in
the fugue. Objective or no, it will
be worthy of the people’s considera-
tion, too.”

The girl lifted a quizzical brow.
What scheme is this dear old lady
hatching? Aloud, she inquired:
“And Stefan? Will such as he ap-
preciate this answer?”

“Perhaps not now,” Candace
acknowledged. “But even Stefan
will someday feel the pain of per-
sonal loss.”

★ * *

Faedermoon’s pale disc had al-
ready become visible when the last
to arrive settled into the protection
of the rocks. A thousand eyes were
fastened upon heaven, a thousand
ears filled with windsong.

Galan strained in the still-
sheltered house to feel Jamie’s pre-
sence on the hillside, though she
knew it would be lost in the mul-
titude who awaited Modormoon’s
appearance. Perhaps then, she
thought, when the windmantle’ s
raised, there’ll be some small indi-
cation of his presence, borne aloft
with all the rest, yet separate from
them . . .

Candace interrupted the thought
with a gentle admonition. “It’s
time, Galan. Modormoon is show-
ing herself.”

Breathing deeply, Galan willed
herself to be empty of the giller, to
be drained of all personal considera-
tions and attend to the needs of

WIND MUSIC

115

those gathered without. Then she
walked to the truss on the right, as
Stefan went to the left, and together
they levered the mantle away from
the wall.

The exposed reeds began to vi-
brate, slowly at first, and then in a
crescendo as the mantle was raised
to its fullest height and the moon-
pulled air roared through the wind-
ways. Cacophonous at the start, it
was gathered slowly into tones as
Stefan’s mind took hold, simulta-
neously modulating the vibration of
the reeds, and stating the question
that poured upward from the
gathered minds. His control was
firm and sure, the question that
would form the basic motif for the
first movement o6 the future
strongly put. Galan had no diffi-
culty adding the counterpoint of
doubt that this was the most impor-
tant question man in his ignorance
could pose. She could feel Candace
reinforcing her, strengthening the
counterpoint against the steady
throb of Stefan’s opening: Why, the
gathered minds demanded, as one,
must there be hardship, suffering,
want in the midst of plenty? Why
death?

And the counterpoint? What good
to ask? Death is surely as natural
as life. Is there not some other
question that lies deeper in the
heart?

Candace strengthened her control,
forcing the counterpoint to become
the main theme. Stefan receded into
background. Why is acceptance so

116

difficult? Candace phrased it as a
sigh, adding: If we are born of the
soil, why do we hate its call?

Galan joined her, a series of im-
ages: Does the moorhound question
his yoke? Can a fish hate the net?
Only man rails at fate.

Stefan left off his repetition of
the earlier chords, made the re-
sponse borne upward from the
gathered multitude: And only man is
vain. Our death feeds the soil, and
it replenishes us.

So, Galan thought, Stefan had
been right. The fugue would be a
celebration of death, an almost joy-
ful affirmation of its place in na-
ture’s scheme. The doubts, the grief
at the personal loss it caused, the
anguish at its contemplation, all
would sink into background, to be-
come mere counterpoints to the
main theme: Death may triumph,
but we, the living, reap its benefits.

Stefan continued, the reeds parted
firmly to provide forceful accom-
paniment to the image: We see the
parent moons, how they move apart
to make way for Kind. We must
take our lesson from them, and go
readily to the soil, that our children
will prosper.

Galan prepared to counter softly.
And the childless? Should they think
so highly of the moons’ example?
She had barely chorded the phrase
when Candace startled them all by
introducing a stop. Overriding both
of the younger musicians, she fol-
lowed the brief rest with a strongly
phrased command: Consider one

GALAXY

such ill-fated soul, whose mate has
gone to the soil, leaving no child
behind to comfort a grieving
mother. Can such a one be recon-
ciled so easily? What of loss? Not
of life, but of a loved one?

Come, feel for a heartbeat her
grief at his passing . . .

Stefan was struck dumb. He was
staring at the older woman in-
credulously, the wall totally out of
his control now as the fine, sure
touch of Candace manipulated it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Galan
joined her. And finally, many
heartbeats later, Stefan too joined
in, providing a counterpoint of
youthful optimism for their mutual
and most incredibly personal la-
ment.

More sure now that Stefan had
succumbed to Candace’s innovation,
Galan moved to take control: What
of the unhappy lover? Come, feel
the pain of separation . . .

She had just chorded the phrase
when a thought touched hers, tenta-
tively at first, but so familiar to her
that it grew quickly into his pre-
sence. Jamie! He had come after
all.

With his presence so strong as to
be standing beside her, the last
shreds of objectivity were cast
aside, and she began to tell him, in
the music, of the feelings she’d kept
hid. The other two musicians gave
up the reeds, letting her mind range
at will over the instrument set into
the wall. They listened with the
rest, as Galan bared her heart. But

they might all have left save one,
and the music would have been the
same.

Together, the three finished the
last movement. It would be, Galan
knew, the subject of many a debate
among those gathered below, but it
would also be not soon forgotten;
for at its end, the wind carried an
ovation of tears.

* * *

“You’ll go then?’’ Candace
asked. She stood by the pond, ready
to leave.

“I’ll go,’’ Galan answered.
“Perhaps we’ll invent a new cus-
tom, Jamie and I. A child raised a
season in the father’s element and a
season in the mother’s may be a
most fortunate being. Who can
know till it’s tried?’’

The old woman nodded. “I doubt
that it matters much where a child
is loved, only that it is loved. And
as to custom, it’s a good thing to
flout now and again. Keeps the
world young, and vital.’’ She
winked so wickedly that Galan had
to laugh, and almost missed her
question: “Has Stefan recovered?’’
“Magnificently,’’ G^lan said.
“His ego is already devising appli-
cations for the future.’’

“Ah, well. I’ll leave it to you
younger souls to see that he controls
it. One’s particular concerns should
not be elevated to the level of art
unless they are of truly universal
interest. The traditional approach

WIND MUSIC

117

may be right to that extent. But
neither should art become an insipid
reflection of the majority.” She
cocked her head, an old elf who
knew the mischief she’d done.
“When I made my personal sorrow
a part of the future, did you know
that you would do likewise? Or was
it only impulse?”

“That,” Galan said, “plus the
presence of Jamie in my thought.
Trine brought many novelties this
year, eh, Candace?”

The old woman nodded. “And
your giller? Do you know his mind
as well as your own? Will he give
up his lowlands each season as it
turns, for all the time it will take to
raise a child?”

“After hearing the music we put
into the wind, how could he re-
fuse?”

They embraced and Candace took
her leave.

It may be her last concert, Galan
thought as she watched the solitary
figure dwindle out of sight, but it
won't be an end to her. She’s
brought a new kind of music to the
world. No longer will an artist be
content to read the message carried
on the wind, when he can create his
own, and make the wind carry it.

Joyously she considered a name
for the child. Candace if it’s a girl.
If a boy, we’ll call him Candor. A
novel name perhaps, but the
world’ll learn to like it.

Then she went inside to make
ready for her own journey, to the
lowlands where the giller waited. ★

GALAXY

BOOKSHELF

Spider Robinson

Now You See ItIHimIThem. . . ,
Gene DeWeese & Roh>eil Coul-
son, Doubleday, 157 pp., $5.95
The Starcrossed, Ben Bova, Chil-
ton, 197 pp., $6.95
Human Machines, ed. Thomas N.
Scortia & George Zebrowski,
Vintage, 252 pp., $2.95
The Stardust Voyages, Stephen Tall,
Berkley, 230 pp., $1.25
Soldier, Ask Not, Gordon R.

Dickson, DAW, 223 pp., $1.50
Ability Quotient, Mack Reynolds,
Ace, 160 pp., $1 .25
Six Science Fiction Plays, ed. Roger
El wood. Pocket, 388 pp., $1.95
Space Relations, Donald Barr, Faw-
cett, 256 pp., $1.25
The Weird World of Gahan Wilson ,
Tempo, lotsa pages, $0.95
Imaginative Sex, John Norman,
DAW, 269 pp., $1.95
Science Fiction Book Review Index,
1923-1973, ed. H.W. Hall, Gale

Research Co., 438 pp. , no price
named.

Bedlam Planet, John Brunner, Ace,
159 pp., $1.25

Polymath, John Brunner, DAW,
156 pp., $1.25

66rp

1 HE TROUBLE WITH AN IN-
JOKE,” B.D. Wyatt once told me,
“is that, to work, it must be super-
fluous.”

Ever hear of Rocket To The Mor-
gue! It’s a murder mystery the late
Anthony Boucher published many
moons ago (a reissue of which
would be timely and a review copy
of which would be appreciated),
which takes place in the world of
SF, and whose characters, I am
told, are drawn from Heinlein and
John Campbell and like that. I
would love to read this book. I am
informed that it is a fine, tight mys-
tery as good as Boucher ever pro-

BOOKSHELF

119

duced (a considerable recommenda-
tion), with the added spice of the
in-joke.

I did read, and thoroughly en-
joyed (and would welcome a reissue
etc.) Larry Niven and David Ger-
rold’s The Flying Sorcerer, which
was a carefully plotted and splendidly
written novel of interstellar hilarity,
one of the most consistently hilari-
ous books I’ve ever read. It also
took added spice from an in-joke:
its alien primitives worship a pun-
theon of gods with SF names
(Fineline the God of Engineers,
T’Sturshin the God of Love. Elcin
the Midget God of Thunder and
Musk-watz of the Winds being en-
tirely enough examples).

Are you getting my point? The
in-joke is a splendid spice. Try to
bake a cake of nutmeg sometime.

Now You See ItIHimIThem ... is
a nutmeg cake. It, like Rocket to
the Morgue, is a murder mystery,
and get this, kids: the murder takes
place at what the jacket copy al-
leges is a WorldCon (World Science
Fiction Convention, Mr. Van
Winkle) — although it reads more
like a cross between some ghastly
little regional Con and a Star Trek
Sale (I refuse to call them Cons).
You get brief vicarious glimpses of
Gordy Dickson, Kelly Freas (mys-
teriously described as “white-
haired”) and a few other pro and
fan luminaries, and the murder itself
involves Mysterious ESP Powers
and a Vanishing Killer. The murder
victim is, named Tucker, but in no

way resembles the Tucker / have
come to know and . . . er, know;
nor does the sheriff named Hensley
remind me overmuch of Honest Joe.
The plot is dumb, the writing tired,
all characters in the book are moron
stereotypes — all it has going for it is
the in-joke, which, since it ain’t
superfluous, collapses under the
strain.

Then . . .

On the other hand. . . .

There’s The Starcrossed, Ben Bo-
va’s delightful novel of gibbering
madness in the 3-D TV biz, which
might have been subtitled Fear and
Loathing In Toronto.

For those few of you who won’t
catch the reference, Harlan Ellison
once created and sold a TV series,
The Starlost, which was taken from
his tender hands, raped, beaten,
ritually mutilated and left for dead
on the airwaves. This end-product
(and the expression may never have
been more aptly-used) was so unrec-'
ognizably butchered that Harlan
rightly insisted the series be ere;
dited to ‘‘Cordwainer Bird,” a fic-
titious entity and another in-joke.
You wanna hear horror stories about
the scriptwriter who thought the
back-up controls were what would
make the starship back up, go talk
to Harlan — or talk to Ben, who
worked as “science consultant”
preproduction until he discovered
that they were ignoring every word?
he said.

Now Ben once got a terrific!
novelette, “When No Man Pur-*

sueth,” out of me by having me fic-
tionalize something that actually
happened to me on a Greyhound
bus. So this time he followed his
own advice and wrote a thinly-
disguised account of the filming of
Starlost, set in a near- future which
represents an all-too-plausible ex-
trapolation of the decadence of the
TV industry here and in Canada. It
is deftly plotted, mordantly satiric,
actually rib-splitting in places — and
includes a character who I swear to
God is Harlan to the life .

But please note the order: it is a
good book and it is a lovely in-
joke. Even if you are one of the
dwindling minority who don’t know
Harlan, or one of the lucky few
who missed The Starlost, you will
almost undoubtedly enjoy The Star-
crossed, the Catch-22 of the TV
world in SF form. In a book-full of
funny gags, the in-joke is blessedly
superfluous . . . and therefore it
works.

* * *

Enough on the subject of in-
jokes. What else in dis paper bag?
(I’m “on vacation’’ in the United
Snakes this month, selling two
books and a fat novella, battling en-
tropy under the hood of my car,
gulping books whenever I can, gen-
erally between enormous medicinal
doses of Tullamore Dew.) A series,
then, of more or less disconnected
snapshots: Oh yez. Human

Machines.

It’s getting to the point where any
antho with George Zebrowski’s
name on it goes to the top of my
reading list (a dizzying height) sight
unseen. This one confirms the ten-
dency. It’s not the first theme antho
on cyborgs, and it won’t be the last,
but it’s one of the best: a wide-
spectrum sampling of SF specula-
tion on cybernetic intelligence over
the last 25 years, ranging from Guy
Endore’s “Men of Iron’’ to Jack
Dann’s “I’m With You In Rock-
land’’; from Kuttner’s “Camou-
flage” to Vonnegut’s “Fortitude”;
and it includes a remarkably in-
teresting intro (almost a contradic-
tion in terms) on The Cyborg in SF.
Also represented are Damon
Knight, C. L. Moore, Walter Miller
Jr., “J.J. Coupling,” James Blish,
editor Zebrowski (a ghastly story
about a starship fucking itself) and
co-editor Thomas N. Scortia with
one of his best stories, “Sea
Change.” It is worth noting that
while these stories are individually
excellent and collectively an exhaus-
tive exploration of the cyborg con-
cept, they are none of them the
overanthologized, overfamiliar
stories a hack-editor could have
cheaply and quickly slapped to-
gether on the theme. C.L. Moore’s
stupendous “No Woman Born,”
fifty years ahead of its time when it
was printed in 1944, is alone worth
the $2.95 bite. Go get it.

Okay. I’ve recommended the
book. Now I can indulge myself in
an aside. Ninety percent of the cov-

BOOKSHELF

121

ers on SF novels make my gorge
rise, and I’ve only indulged myself
once before; but this time I cannot
be silent. You let Pournelle sound
off a few months ago, Baen — now
it’s my turn.

You want a symbolic cover for a
book of stories about human
machines, living hardware, OK? So
there’s a frontal head shot of a guy
with the top of his head unplugged,
suspended by braces a good five or
six inches above the rest of him,
OK? Now I don’t know about you,
but if I am the kind of bookstore-
browser who judges a book by its
cover (and the publishers say we all
do), I am going to be turned off to
the book when I notice that the top
half of the skull is designed to join
with the rest both by a three-prong
vacuum-tube-type socket and by a
fixed position screw-band which
necessitates the rotating of the
skull-cap. You can’t connect the
damned thing without destroying
it — screw the brain into place and
you snap off two of the three
prongs.

Now listen — you can’t hold this
against Scortia and Zebrowski. No
one has less control over the cover
of a book than its creator. Nor can
the artist take the rap — he failed to
sign his masterpiece. But someone
should tell Vintage it’s the little
things like this that hurt.

End of indulgent aside.

* -k il

Next: The Stardust Voyages.
From the experiences of the last
week, I can assure you that it shall
be easier for a camel to pass
through Murcheson’s Eye than for a
writer to sell a collection of short
stories. Apparently an alarming
number of you klutzes would rather
read a dumb long story than a series
of good short ones — or so the pub-
lishers believe (how do you feel
about single-author collections?
Why don’t you drop your favorite
publishers a line and let him
know?). So Stephen Tall and I both
used the same dodge: collect your
common-background stories, put’em
together, call them chapters, and
you’ve got ... a novel!

Despite the kiss-of-death cover-
copy (“In the great tradition of
STAR TREK’’), Tail’s book suc-
ceeds almost as well as mine — with
one qualification: you must not
(nay, can not) read this book in one
sitting. If you do, the exegesis-of-
background will by the third “chap-
ter” become so unneccessarily re-
dundant and repetitious (according
to the Bureau of Redundancy
Bureau) that you’ll put the book
down. The six Stardust stories were
written and sold over a period of
eight years, and for each the entire
background and cast had to be rees-
tablished. Unfortunately, this was
so skillfully done each time that
background metastasized within the
body of each story, surgically inop-
erable (a problem I sidestepped with
the Callahan’s Place stories by beat-

122

GALAXY

ing my brains out to find ten differ-
ent ways to explain what Callahan’s
Place is).

So read the Voyages one at a
time. They’re good stuff, especially
the 1972 Hugo Finalist “The Bear
With The Knot On His Tail.’’ But
let a lot of time go by in between.
Oh yeah — half of them first ran in
Galaxy.

I’ve been waiting to read Soldier,
Ask Not for a long time — I’ve been
a fan of Gordy Dickson’s Dorsai
stories for nearly as long as Jerry
Pournelle. I was able to find Tactics
of Mistake, and Gordy graciously
lent me his own only surviving
copy of Dorra/.' (which Ace had reti-
tled “The Genetic General’’ —
yecch), but Soldier eluded me for
years.

I tell you, I wish it had continued
to elude me.

Soldier, Ask Not has some juicy
stuff in it. One third of it was pub-
lished as a novella and won some-
thing called a Hugo in that cate-
gory, which says something. It fills
in a lot of the holes in Dorsai his-
tory, particularly in the biographies
of Donal and Kensie Graeme. But it
just doesn’t work as a novel. Things
happen — or fail to happen — ^just too
conveniently; characters behave as
the plot, rather than their selves, re-
quires. There is a general air of
contrivance, the faint sound of plot
machinery clanking in the

SCIENCE FICTION REVIEW

-Mi

An Informal & Irreverent Science
Fiction & Fantasy Journal
Edited & Published by
Richard E. Gels

Issue #16 features a long,
revealing interview with Jerry
Pournelle detailing his
collaborations with Larry Niven,
his view of Man’s future, and
his opinion of his own and
others’ science fiction.

Also: John Brunner’s column,
“Noise Level."

Also: Barry Malzberg reviews
James Gunn.

Also: Richard Lupoff’s column,
Jon Gustafson’s column on SF
Art, and letters from Isaac
Asimov, Malzberg, Coney,
Bloch, others.

Also: “Philip K. Dick: A
Parallax View" by Terrence
Green.

Also: Alter-Ego running

rampant on a field of bloody
books.

Quartarly/sample $1
year $4/two years. $7

SCIENCE FICTION REVIEW
P.O. Box 11408
Portland, OR 97211

BOOKSHELF

123

background, and the psychotic pro-
tagonist’s last-act change of heart
(“Oh / get it ... I ought to be
nice.”) just rang false. What has to
have happened here is a classic case
of a damned good novella ruined by
expansion.

Worthwhile for true Dorsai
freaks, but I’d rather have seen the
original novella with maybe a
couple of the harder-to-locate Dor-
sai short stories to fill up the
book — but then, the publishers feel
you’d rather buy this than a story
collection.

* -k if

From somewhere they keep coming,
lately, like some inexorable tide of
sludge: quickies by Mack Reynolds.
It takes a competent craftsman to
keep churning them out, and it is
frustrating to watch a competent
craftsman wasting his time doing
so. So far, each has been worse
than the last, and founded on ever-
shakier moral principles. This latest.
Ability Quotient, rests on the as-
sumption that rule by an elite is na-
tural and advisable, provided they
are a genuine elite. Who defines
elite? Mack Reynolds, and for the
nth time his “hero” is a man I
wouldn’t invite home to dinner. Ah,
but he’s got a high Ability
Quotient — doubletalk for survival-
proneness — and Magic Pills that
turn him up to 78 RPM like Alvin
the Chipmunk. His name ... are
you ready? ... is Killer Caine.

Another science-fiction superman
myth, with characters right out of
the cupboard and gore galore.

Mack, stop.

* it k

Six Science Fiction Plays is one
of those collections you can’t use
the Spider Scale to rate: there’s too
great a disparity in the contents. To
start with, its title is incorrect. It
contains three plays, two teleplays
and a screenplay — a short

screenplay. As far as I can deter-
mine from the information supplied,
only one has ever been produced.
Do you understand what you are
buying? Six pieces which failed to
sell in their own medium — like buy-
ing sheet music for songs nobody
wanted to record.

And yet, there are things in the
book that make it worth buying.
The smasher, of course, is the one
that was produced: Harlan Ellison’s
Star Trek episode, “The City At
The Edge of Forever.” Now, this
isn’t the version that ran on TV and
won the Hugo and the George
Melies Fantasy Award. This is Har-
lan’s uncut original, the one that
won the Writer’s Guild Award, and
it is much much better in every
way, and it is printed here for the
first time, and it is a rare treat. Har-
lan’s intro is as long, and as good,
as they always are. Also pleasant to
read was Fritz Leiber’s teleplay,
“The Mechanical Bride.” While a
little trite in plot, it could, properly

124

GALAXY

produced, be a real chiller. What do
I know? Maybe Alfie Hitchcock or
somebody already did it.

But the balance of the Stage and
Screen SF is the kind of stuff that
closes out of town before it opens,
ancient themes given nothing to
make them come alive. “Distin-
guished dramatist” Paul Zindel’s
“Let Me Hear You Whisper” was a
particularly sophomoric satire on the
heartlessness of scientists, and even
the Real SF Writers (John Jakes,
the Cogswell Twins, and Tom Rea-
mey (?) weren’t much better.

If your high-school drama class is
really stuck for a play, try this — but
don’t plan to charge admission.

it * ir

Space relations was disturbingly
good. How do I go about praising a
book about interstellar S&M? Well,
I can tell you that it’s exceptionally
well-written, tastefully handled, en-
tirely engrossing, reasonably plausi-
ble and populated by real people, I
guess. Voracious aliens called Plith
are approaching inhabited space,
and scattered human planets are
forming a Treaty Organization in
self defense. Kossar wishes to
join — but the Organization charter
forbids slavery, on which Kossar’ s
economy appears to depend. The
problem is solved by what has to be
the ultimate extrapolation of the
masochist-hero theme — a secret
agent who engages in an undercover
mission involving the classic

mistress-slave relationship with a
Kossarian noble-woman, only to
discover that he loves it.

I liked the book. It was . . . how
shall I say it? . . . disquietingly en-
joyable. Let’s see more from
Donald Barr.

•k -k it

Continuing our flirtation with
aberration, we find . . . Gahan Wil-
son!

What can I say about a book of
cartoons? There’s this boat tootling
out of the Tunnel of Love, and the
couples in it are all snarling and
yapping at one another, and one of
the men in the foreground is
grumbling, “Get the repair crew
here on the double!” Or there’s a
three-headed man answering the
phone with, “Burns, Burns &
Burns; this is Burns, Burns and
Bums speaking.” (these days I an-
swer my own phone with, “En-
chanted Delicatessen — this is the
mustard speaking.”) Or there’s . . .

There’s an indeterminate (no page
numbers) but satisfying number of
Gahan Wilson cartoons, and that’s
all that need, or can, be said. Wil-
son claims to draw what he sees.
Be sure and wash your brains after
reading.

* * *

But while Wilson skirts the edge of
madness, John Norman lurches
headfirst over the edge, intq Im-

BOOKSHELF

125

aginative Sex, the most clinically
astounding “sex guide” of our age.
It advises you to liven up your mar-
riage by turning your wife into a
slave. It presents 53 scenarios on
this theme, most of them science-
fictional in form or content (out-
takes from Gor novels) which is
why DAW sent me a copy. Norman
goes out of his way to insist that he
really loves women (specimen
egalitarian sentence: “If the woman
wishes a gag, she should be gag-
ged.’’), and this one you should
scrub your brains after reading. Bet-
ter yet, leave it to the anthro-
pologists of tomorrow.

Second recipient of the Galaxa-
tive Award.

« * *

Most of you can skip this next one;
but if you are a researcher, an
academic, a dedicated critic, or
someone hard-up for a thesis, the
Science Fiction Book Review Index,
1923-1973 will be an invaluable
find. It is a staggering achievement,
a literal index of every review
printed in an SF prozine in the last
fifty years, plus maintstream and
fanzine reviews of fantasy and SF
for the last three years. It is indexed
by author-of-reviewed-work, in-
cludes exhaustive directories of ail
prozines cited (clarifying magazine
numbering errors), and has an
editors’ index (Doc Lowndes holds
the all-time record, having edited 11
different titles, followed by Hugo

126

Gernsback with 8). It is crammed
full of eminently accessible informa-
tion for which I have no use
whatsoever — but if you want or
need to know, say, what Alfred Be-
ster had to say about Ted Stur-
geon’s Venus Plus X, this will at
least tell you whatever it was, was
said in Vol. 20 No. 1 (Jan. 1961)
of Fantasy <6 Science Fiction on
pages 95-6. Then all you need is a
complete library of F&SF (and the
215 other magazines covered in this
438-page, oversize volume).

Now me, I’d call up Alfie and
ask him.

1 have no idea how much the
book costs — there’s no price given;
But if you want it, you probably
won’t care. It’s apparently available
only from Gale Research Co., Book
Tower, Detroit, Michigan 48226.
Editor H.W. Hall promises to up-
date it in annual volumes and will
deal with you privately for them.

* ★ 1 ^

Next month I intend to devote
something on the order of half a
column to John Brunner, thanks to
an explosion of fascinating books
by and about him that arrived too
late for inclusion this month — but I
can’t leave without telling you
about the two I did have time to
finish. As anyone will tell you, pa-
perback distribution is the shits: if I
wait until next month to review
these two books, so I can tie them
in with the others, they’ll be gone

GALAXY

from your bookstore. So by all
means go out and purchase copies
of Bedlam Planet and/or (depending
on your finances) Polymath, while
they last.

Bedlam Planet is vintage 1968
Brunner, with all the Brunner
hallmarks. Characters so real they
tug at your fingers as you turn the
pages, situations of poignant irony,
masterful plotting, a seemingly-
effortless writing style just spattered
with all those grace notes of insight
and wit, and the innovative theme
that the mind may not always be the
best tool with which to face the un-
known. It concerns a group of
shipwrecked colonists, trying to
adapt to their new home with less
than half the equipment and
supplies they need, and the uniden-
tified native bacteria which prevent
their bodies from metabolizing as-
corbic acid; and the unique solution
they are vouchsafed when a few of
them become wise enough to go in-
sane. One of those rare books that
engages the brain and the heart in
turns, that is to say, standard Brun-
ner.

Polymath also concerns space-
wrecked humans, who land on a mys-
tery world after barely escaping the
destruction of their home planet by
nova. They ground safely, but their
ship is subsequently wrecked. Pro-
ducts of centuries of easy-living,
urban utopia-style, they nonetheless
begin working toward continued
survival on their new home, facing
fierce predators and a savage

winter. But it seems a second
survivor-ship also reached this
planet, and crashed up in the moun-
tains . . . could they not provide
invaluable aid and, more important,
moral support? The central character
is a “polymath,” a multi-discipline
genius with high-survival potential
specially trained to help colonists
survive on a strange world. Only,
when the home sun blew up, he
was just beginning the decades of
training — and what instruction he
did receive was not for the planet
they’ve found. John has s^me tren-
chant observations to make about
who are the survivor-typ and
some unique insights about hk\man
behavior under crisis. A grit >ing
adventure, with that air- -reality
that only Poul Anderson can do as
consistently. Dammit, I care about
Brunner’s characters — and fortu-
nately for me, he does too.

* * ★

And the road again. Back to Nova
Scotia — see yez next month, from
my usual location between the
Ashley and the chamber-pot. And
my apologies to the Halifax Science
Fiction Society, who have stiffly in-
formed me that I am not the only
fan in Nova Scotia. Come on up to
Hampton some time, folks — you
can have all my Perry Rhodans. I’m
in the phone book under
Bridgetown.

Where do they keep the
Egress? ★

BOOKSHELF

127

^^ILL STEWART STEADIED HIMSELF
against the bulkhead and peered
through the small telescope that
floated in front of the port. Free of
any motion his muscles might have
imparted to it, the scope afforded a
crystal-clear view of the target area.
He glanced at the monitor to his
left. It showed the same view, but
not as sharply. He pushed a lighted
button beneath the monitor and the
words MAIN SEQUENCE. . . .
BEGIN RUN. . .24 AUG 93. . .
13:46:53— GMT. . .MARK. . .
Lat 14 42N LONG 17 29 W flashed
briefly across the screen.

He returned his gaze to the tele-
scope and stared at the smoke-
shrouded ruins of Dakar. Sadly he
stowed the telescope in its niche be-
side the port.

When Liam O’Sullivan entered
the observatory he found Stewart,
hands lightly braced on either side
of the port, immersed in his own
thoughts. Stewart’s usually sharp
features were softened by the re-
flected earthlight. The yellowish
glow made the small cabin seem
warmer than it actually was.

“What are you listening to?’’
asked O’Sullivan.

“Mozart. Symphoney number 35,
in D major. Wrote it in 1780 some-
thing.’’ Stewart hadn’t moved, he
still gazed at the vast dust storms on
the planet’s surface.

“Nice . . . Will?’’

Stewart glanced over his shoulder
at the other man, an inquisitive look
on his face.

“What are you thinkin’ so hard
about?”

Stewart looked out the port again.
“I was thinking about sanity,
Liam.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, just sanity in general.” He
turned from the port and looked at
his friend. O’Sullivan couldn’t read
Stewart’s expression. He was
silhouetted by the port, his face in
shadow. “Tell me, Liam, do you
ever feel a sense of peace
and . . . separateness up here?”

O’Sullivan nodded. “I suppose
we all do. Will. Distance softens
it,” he jerked his chin toward the
port, and what was beyond.

“Sometimes it just seems
strange. These fantastic machines,”
he motioned toward the softly glow-
ing bank of computers, “the
Mozart, all of us up here in our lit-
tle can of air. There’s such a
dichotomy between this, and that
hell below. Up here cool precision,
down there a chaotic holocaust.”

O’Sullivan nodded slowly. The
symphony had come to an end and
the only sounds were those of the
circulating vents and the soft clicks
from the observatory tracking
mechanisms.

“Hell, Will,” O’Sullivan said
softly, “you just can’t let it get to
you.”

“Sometimes it’s damned dif-
ficult. There are two billion people
down there who’re gonna be dead
before the year is out.”

“I know. I also know that there’s

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

129

nothing we can do about it.”

“Nothing.” Stewart sighed deep-
ly. “I guess you’re right. Oh,
hell, I know you’re right. It’s been
too late for the last six, seven years.
Still, it’s just so . . .” He shrug-
ged.

Any further conversation they
might have had was interrupted by
the sound of someone approaching
down the companionway. The blond
giant who flew into the compart-
ment looked more like an avenging
viking than the soft-spoken com-
munications tech he really was.
Sven Thorvald halted his forward
flight by hooking his boot on the
edge of the hatch.

“What say, old sots?” he said
with a grin.

O’Sullivan laughed. “Typically
dramatic entrance. Typically dis-
oriented, too,” he added, as Thor-
vald pulled himself into the com-
partment and hung in front of the
other two with his feet toward the
“ceiling.”

“I’ve got some dramatic news,
lads, so be nice.”

“I know. The People’s Democrat-
ic Republic of Somewhere is about
to laser us out of existance, right?”
“Not quite that dramatic. Will.
But almost: you’re going

downside — ”

“What! Will’s not scheduled for
downside for another month!”

“Let him talk, Liam.”

“Thank you. As I was trying to
say, you’re going back to earth, but
first. Mack wants to see you.”

130

* * *

“Don’t look weird at me. Will,
I’ve got nothing to do with this,”
Col. Mack Bennett said, as Stewart
entered the slot that served the sta-
tion as a wardroom.

Stewart smiled, “I didn’t think
you did. But I am hoping you know
something about it.” He pulled a
full coffee cup from the zero-gee
dispenser and looked at the station
commander.

“I know a little bit; and I can
guess some more. You are going to
the Population Conference in Bern,
Switzerland.”

“You’re kidding! What for?”

“Because you’re an expert on our
stinking little biosphere — ”

“The Conference is lousy with
experts.”

“ — and you have, literally, up-
to-the-minute data on the world
crop situation, and that’s what they
need.”

“ ‘They,’ who?”

“You report to the chief
negotiator for the United States, Jef-
ferson Prima. Know him?”

Stewart nodded. “I met him a
few years ago when he needed
some satellite data interpreted for
the Third Conference. I was impress-
ed. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I agree,” said Bennett. “They
want the full schmier: area maps,
overlays, color coded, et cetera.
Make ten sets of reflection prints
each of all the relevant drought and

GALAXY

gamma-S infection data for the last
week. Take one print for
projection — same coverage, and
some background film for the last
six, eight months. Now, how soon
can you have the last scan in hard-
copy form, ready for display?”

‘‘An hour, maybe less. All I have
to do is feed the program.”

‘‘That’s fine. There’s a shuttle
leaving the Wheel in three hours.
We can get you there in one of our
tugs with time to spare. It’s taking a
load of European scientists to
Zurich. When you get there, you’ll
be given a stack of stuff from Orion
and Newgate so you’ll have world
coverage for the last week. Then
you fly to Bern. Okay?”

‘‘No problem. But why only ten
hard copies? Must be a small meet-
ing.”

‘‘I guess so. Also, it’s classi-
fied.”

“Huh?”

‘‘No one outside the station is to
know where you’re going or what
you^re taking with you. It might be
better if you didn’t tell anyone up
either, just in case.”

‘‘Now that is strange.”

Bennett nodded and sucked some
coffee into his mouth. ‘‘If anybody
asks any questions you can tell
them you’re due some ground time
and you decided to take it in Swit-
zerland. The old tourist routine,
what? Anyway, you can leave for
the Wheel as soon as you get your
data together.”

‘‘Okay, fine.” Stewart finished
TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

his coffee and pushed himself to-
ward and through the hatch. He was
thinking about sanity again, but it
was more specific this time.

♦ * ★

Stewart arrived at the Wheel with
30 minutes to spare. The tug’s pilot
bid him farewell and left to super-
vise the vehicle’s refueling and the
loading of new equipment bound for
the observatory.

Since the shuttle’s departure was
imminent, Stewart didn’t leave the
Hub; he had been weightless for
over a month and could not have
adjusted in the few minutes avail-
able. Instead he boarded the
shuttle and found a seat in the
spacious passenger section next to
one of the small viewports. After an
attractive stewardess assisted him in
strapping down he promptly fell
asleep.

He awoke to the sound of a warn-
ing bell and a voice. ‘‘The shuttle is
about to undock. All passengers
must be strapped down. We will
disengage five seconds after the
warning bell sounds again, eta
Zurich, 46 minutes.” The message
was repeated in four other lan-
guages and the warning bell
sounded.

Stewart felt a gentle pressure
which forced him into the straps
across his chest. The Wheel moved
away slowly.

‘‘Prepare for deceleration,” came
multilingually from the speaker, and

131

Stewart was pressured firmly into
his seat. As the craft’s orbital veloc-
ity decreased and the Wheel re-
cced into the void, Stuart felt a
number of attitude changes nudging
the giant spacecraft into the proper
orientation for a re-entry. A few
minutes later the shuttle was skip-
ping along the top of the atmo-
sphere in a series of shuddering
jolts, gradually losing speed. In
less than 20 minutes it had turned
from space vehicle to aircraft and
was rapidly approaching Europe and
Switzerland. Western Europe was
completely covered by clouds and
Stewart spent little more time look-
ing out the port. He had an over-
whelming sense of fatigue; the re-
turn from weightlessness made even
breathing an effort.

The ceiling was less than 50 feet
over Zurich but the ship’s computer
brought them down with less than
three centimeter’s error. As the
shuttle taxied across the huge inter-
national air/space port, Stewart
looked in vain for the sight of an
Alp. Rain and heavy mist shrouded
the landing apron.

“Look at that!’’ A man on the
opposite side of the aisle was point-
ing out his port. “There’s some sort
of skirmish going on.” His accent
was British and he wore the light-
blue uniform of a United Nations
Observer.

Stewart heard the muffled roar of
an explosion. He quickly unstrapped
his seatbelt and crossed the aisle to
peer over the man’s shoulder.

132

“What is it?” he asked.

“Over there, by those trucks,”
the UN man said, pointing.

They could faintly hear the
angry crackle of small-arms fire.
As the mist cleared momentar-
ily, Stewart could see a number of
tiny figures running in their direc-
tion from the far edge of the field.
Suddenly a needle with a tail of
flame left the group of men, and
arched toward the shuttlecraft.

“My God,’’ murmured the
Britisher. “That’s a rocket!”

It seemed to move with incredible
slowness as Stewart watched, fro-
zen. Then, inexplicably, the rocket
veered from its course and im-
pacted on the runway less than 50
meters from them. The explosion
rocked the shuttle.

Momentarily blinded by the bril-
liant flash Stewart staggered back
into the aisle. Shrill cries and a con-
fused babble in at least four lan-
guages filled the passenger com-
partment. Fighting blue-white af-
terimages, Stewart peered out the
port again.

“Here comes another one,” the
Britisher said. He unstrapped him-
self and pushed out of his seat.
“Get down, everyone! In the aisle!
Get away from the ports!’’ He
dropped into the aisle and pulled
Stewart after him. “This one may
not miss.”

There was an ear-splitting roar
and Stewart was thrust painfully
against the seats as the shuttle’s tail
swung around. The landing gear

GALAXY

collapsed and the ship slid screech-
ing across and off the runway,
plowing a deep furrow in the rain-
soaked grass before it came to a
halt.

There was a fire somewhere in
the rear of the craft and smoke was
beginning to fill the passenger sec-
tion. The Britisher lifted his head
and looked at Stewart.

“You all right?” he asked. He
wiped his hand absently across his
forehead. His hand came away cov-
ered with blood from a gash over
his left eye.

Stewart nodded. “I think so, how
about you? You’re bleeding quite a
bit.”

He shrugged. “Head wounds al-
ways bleed a lot. I’ve been told. It
doesn’t hurt.” He stood. “I think
we had better leave, don’t you?”

The other passengers were, minor
cuts and bruises excepted, unhurt.
Most of them were milling about in
the aisle when a stewardess entered
the compartment. She spoke briefly
with the small clusters of passengers
as she moved down the aisle. When
she got to Stewart and the Britisher,
whom she addressed as Dr. Butler,
she immediately applied a small
sterile dressing to the man’s wound.

“We must evacuate the shuttle,
gentlemen. The tail section is afire,
but we are in no immediate
danger. ’ ’

“What about those chaps outside
with the rockets?”

“The pilot just received word
that they have been captured. Now

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

if you will go forward you will be
able to exit via the number three
cargo hatch.” She moved down the
aisle to assist the remaining people
in the rear of the compartment.

“Well,” said Butler, “I suppose
we had best follow the young wom-
an’s advice.”

Stewart nodded. He retrieved the
photo-filled briefcase and his over-
coat from the overhead storage
compartment, and the two men fol-
lowed the rest of the passengers out
of the shuttle.

The rain-swept runway was
crowded with emergency vehicles
whose revolving lights cut blue
slices out of the heavy mist. A
small electric bus arrived to trans-
port the passengers to the main ter-
minal. After all had boarded and the
bus was about to leave a small army
vehicle pulled up. An army officer
got out, spoke briefly with one of
the shuttle’s crewmen, returned to
his car and left.

The crewman turned to the pas-
sengers and informed them (with
the aid of a steward who spoke a
couple of languages he didn’t) that
the army officer wanted to see if
any of the passengers could identify
the people who had attacked the
shuttle. They were therefore pro-
ceeding to the opposite side of the
field, where the survivors were
being held.

Butler, who had taken a seat next
to Stewart, snorted. “Lot of good
this will do. They’re probably
members of some local terrorist

133

group.” He shrugged and looked at
the darkening sky.

“Why do you suppose they at-
tacked the shuttle?” Stewart asked
him.

“Don’t know. It’s an easy target
for homemade rockets—”

“Homemade?” interrupted
Stewart.

Butler nodded. “They were very
erratic and had a low velocity. Mili-
tary rockets don’t fly like that.”

The only survivors of the attack-
ing party were a pair of soaking wet
teenaged girls with their hands cuff-
ed behind them. Two other girls
and five boys were lying in a row
close to the perimeter fence.

Stewart stared at the bodies.
Their upturned faces were so pale
and quiet and young. The rain had
washed most of the blood from their
jagged wounds. The pools of red
contrasted greatly with the green of
the grass. He heard a buzzing in his
ears and swayed slightly.

Butler took hold of his elbow.
“Steady,” he said softly. “Let’s go
back to the bus. You don’t know
any of them, do you?”

Stewart shook his head and took
some slow, deep breaths. “None of
them look over eighteen.”

* it ir

The trip to Bern took less than an
hour, ground time included. Stewart
spent most of that time thinking
about the incident that had cost the
lives of eight people. He had

134

learned later that the stewardess
who had helped him strap in when
he had boarded the shuttle was
among the dead.

An electric Mercedes met him at
the airport and took him to the
Hotel Hericourt in the center of a
new convention complex north of
Old Bern. The hotel was furnished
entirely in Art Nouveau. Due largly
to the efforts of an architect named
Carelli the century-old style had
undergone a European renaissance.
Within a decade many of the cities
of Western Europe had buildings
with stark glass, granite and stain-
less steel exteriors and sharply con-
trasting, almost surrealistic interiors.
Stewart was always surprised when
he entered one of Carelli’s build-
ings. He felt slightly disoriented, as
if he had accidently stepped into the
past through some insidious door-
shaped time machine.

A room had already been re-
served in Stewart’s name. As the
bellhop carted the luggage toward
the elevators the desk clerk called to
Stewart that someone was waiting
for him in the hotel lounge.

The lounge was a large dark
room, one wall of which was domi-
nated by an enormous fireplace,
with soft and unobtrusive music
emanating from several indiscern-
able points. As he approached the
bar, someone called his name and a
hand motioned from the gloom of a
plushly padded booth adjacent to
the fireplace.

The figure that rose to greet
GALAXY

Stewart was a familiar one. “Will,
glad you could come.”

“Jeff,” said Stewart reaching out
a hand, “how are you?”

Jefferson Prima grasped Stewart’s
hand in both of his. “Good, Will.
Sit down. Like something to
drink?” He waved to a passing wait-
er. After Stewart had ordered, he
slumped back into the soft leather
of the booth.

“You look tired. Will.”

“I am. Part of it is getting accli-
mated to gravity again.” He shrug-
ged. “You hear about the crap in
Zurich?”

Prima nodded. “That’s why 1
wanted to catch you as soon as you
got in.”

“I’ll admit to being flattered by
the attention, but what’s the rush?”
“I have reason to believe that the
attack on the shuttle was for the
specific purpose of destroying the
information you are carrying.”
Stewart’s reply was interupped by
the return of the waiter. He waited
until the man had left. “What the
hell for,” he said in a low voice.
“Everything in that case is or will
be available through the UN info
office.” He shook his head, feeling
exasperated. “Which reminds me,”
he said dryly, “I let the bellhop
take all the stuff up to my room. He
could be a spy, you know.”

Prima grinned. “He probably is,
but he was watched, and your room
is guarded.” He held up a hand to
forestall any comment. “Listen,
Will. I know all this sounds terribly

melodramatic, but it’s the truth.”
“If they want it so bad why
haven’t they tried again?”

“They have, three times. We
weren’t expecting the action at
Zurich, but we’re ready now.”
Stewart sipped at his drink. He
shook his head. “You still haven’t
said why ‘they’ are trying so hard
to destroy data available to anyone
who wants it.”

“They’re convinced that it’s
fake, and they’re sure we- plan to
use it to convince the world that the
situation is much worse than it ac-
tually is so we can gain political
leverage with the Thirds.”

“That’s insane! You can see
it—”

“Tom can see it. They don’t go
into orbit with you.”

Stewart was silent for a few mo-
ments. “Okay, I’ll buy it. I suppose
they could be that stupid.”

“They could be, and of late too
often are.”

“What do you want me to do?”
“We’re going to have a top-level
meeting tomorrow, and I want them
to really understand how it is. No
pulling your punches. All right?”
“Sure, Jeff.” He held up his
glass and stared at the swirling pat-
terns illuminated by the light from
the fire. “It’s a rotten situation, you
know.” Prima nodded. “What are
the chances these clowns will try
another hit?”

“Very good, but we’re covered.
Why don’t you get some sleep.
We’ll pick you up tomorrow mom-

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

135

ing around nine.” Prima stood up
and dropped some bills on the table.

Stewart stood up also, stretched
and yawned deeply. “What are the
chances that the sun will shine to-
morrow?”

“One in a million.”

★ * *

The sun didn’t shine the next
day, and if the terrorists made any
further attempts on Stewart, he didn’t
see them.

The meeting was held iji a build-
ing less than a kilometer from the
hotel. Most of the buildings within
the convention complex were inter-
connected by a system of tunnels.
Small electric cars carried delegates
to and from their destinations with-
out regard to bothersome weather or
traffic.

The room was a large one with a
highly polished oak table in its
center. The table was at least two
meters wide and five meters long.
Heavy armchairs, all red leather,
brass studs and dark wood, sur-
rounded the table. With only nine
men present, the room seemed de-
serted.

Stewart sat close to the head of
the table and watched the others,
while Prima discussed some incom-
prehensible matters of form with the
delegates.

As Prima spoke, Stewart noticed
that he had a lot more gray in his
hair than when Stewart had met him
at the earlier conference. Stewart
remembered with a start that they

136

were the same age, but Prima
looked years older than he should
have.

Stewart had arranged his photo-
graphic displays in the proper se-
quence to match the information he
was going to project on a large day-
light screen at the far end of the
room. Prima introduced Stewart but
he did not identify any of the
others. Stewart could tell the na-
tional origin of some from the ac-
cents, but had no idea who they
were.

Stewart addressed the group for
almost two hours. They asked few
questions, and none of them seemed
surprised by the data he presented.
As he had said to Prima the night
before, the situation was not good.
He talked about droughts in Africa,
the Ukraine, and Midwest America.
He showed the results of floods in
India, Central and South America.
He talked about the gradual cooling
of the atmosphere; the effect of the
circumpolar vortex on rain patterns;
the problems caused by particulate
matter suspended in the atmosphere^
the ruination of crops by increased
ultra-violet radiation due to destruc-
tion of vast amounts of ozone. He
talked about problems caused by the
“Green Revolution” and the wide-
spread use of hybrid grains. He*'
showed them the latest photographs
documenting the spread of the vor-
acious plant virus called gamma-5,
which was in the process of de-
cimating 62% of the world’s wheat ,
crop.

GALAXY

When the last slide had faded
from the screen, Stewart stared at
the blank whiteness for the few sec-
onds before he turned to the somber-
faced men seated around the oak ta-
ble. He tapped his leg lightly with
the pointer he had used during the
discussion. “So, there you are. Any
questions?”

“If only we had stuck with the
slower growing varieties,” one of
the delegates said softly. He was
looking at a photograph showing the
gamma-5 infection. He didn’t seem
to be speaking to anyone in particu-
lar.

“It would not have helped,
Nikoli,” said another.

“Crop failures could have been
localized,” the first man said.

“That’s just for wheat,” said
Prima, “and just for one disease.”

“If not for the hybrid crops this
calamity would have come five
years ago,” said still another dele-
gate.

“Yes, and who could have
foretold these climatic changes?
Weather patterns have been favor-
able, and getting better for the last
five years, until now, until this
year. ’ ’

Gradually all of the delegates had
begun to argue, and Stewart stood
there, astounded, thinking: Our
lives depend on these men, our
lives . . .

Prima stood up. “Gentlemen,
please. Gentlemen!”

There was a sharp crack, like the
sound of a rifle. There was im-

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

mediate silence and everyone was
looking at Stewart. He had hit the
table with the metal pointer. He
hadn’t realized he had done it until
they looked at him. He looked at
the pointer as if he couldn’t re-
member where he’d gotten it, then
he shook his head slightly and toss-
ed the pointer onto the table.

“Thanks, Will,” said Prima with
a grin.

Stewart shrugged.

“Gentlemen,” Prima said, “I
think we had better adjourn now. I
think we could use a little break.
I’d like to thank Dr. Stewart for his
excellent briefing.” There was a
smattering of applause. Prima
looked at his watch. “It’s almost
noon. 1 think we ought to reconvene
here about two o’clock. Any objec-
tions? Good, two it is.” He turned
to Stewart as the others left the con-
ference room.

“You’ve been a great help. Will.
Thank you.”

“Is that all you’ll be needing me
for?”

Prima nodded. “What do you
want to do now? Go back to the sta-
tion? Want a vacation? I can ar-
range it for you, if you like. Go
anwhere you want, two weeks, a
month. You name it.”

“You’ve got that kind of pull?”

Prima nodded again. “ ’Fraid
so.”

“I think I’ll go back up to the
station. It’s . . . well, a lot quieter
up there.”

“I kind of thought you might do

137

that. I envy that access to quiet.
There aren’t many places on earth
that are quiet anymore. Besides,
you might as well enjoy it while
you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“When things fall apart down
here, do you think people are going
to want to spend money on space?
The stations will probably be aban-
doned; at least for a while.”

“We’ve talked about it up there,
but I’ve never heard it sound so offi-
cial.”

“It’s not official,” Prima smiled.
“It’s just a possibility that has to be
considered. Hell, enough of this
gloom. Let’s go to lunch and then
I’ll arrange to have you back in
space before midnight, okay?”
“Sounds good.”

In the elevator down to the park-
ing garage, Prima described their
destination in Old Bern. “It’s called
the Ermitage on Marktgasse. The
cuisine is French, and it’s magnifi-
cent. On the way you’ll get to see
the Zeitglocken, their famous clock
tower built in the twelfth century.
In fact, all of that area is fantastic.
Marktgasse used to be the main
street. Lots of old buildings, foun-
tains, little shops, and so forth. It’s
closed to traffic, so we’ll have to
walk a little. Got your rain coat?”
“Is it still raining out there?”
Stewart frowned. “You know, I
haven’t seen one mountain yet. We
might as well be in Kansas.”

Prima laughed. “We can take the
Mercedes into Old Bern,” he said

as they stepped out of the elevator.

As the car approached, Stewart
could see one man sitting next to
the driver and another in the back.
‘‘We’ve got company,” said
Stewart.

“Guards. Marines from the em-
bassy.” He saw Stewart’s question-
ing look. “Just because the meeting
is over doesn’t mean the terrorists
are through trying.”

He turned to Prima, exasperated.
“How long am I going to have to
keep looking over my shoulder?”

“Once you’re out of Switzerland
you shouldn’t have any trouble.
You’ll be out of it.” They entered
the car and it pulled our into the
street.

“I guess you won’t be out of it,”
Stewart said.

“No,” Prima sighed. “I suppose
I could be. 1 could quit this damn
job, go back to Ohio, write
textbooks and my memoirs.” He
grinned suddenly. ‘‘I guess I’ve
come to believe in my own impor-
tance too much to quit.” He stared
musingly out the window at the
treelined street. “So much depends
on what we do here in the next
week. It’s rather terrifying.”

Both men were silent as the car
moved into Bern’s Old Section.
Prima’s mood changed again
shortly, and he began to name the
buildings they passed. Lost in his
own thoughts, Stewart heard little
of it.

They were moving rapidly along
Tiefenau-Strasse . The river Aare,

138

GALAXY

sometimes visible through the trees
and buildings, was about 100 me-
ters to their left. As they reached the
junction with Neubruck-Strasse, an
old Volkswagen bus pulled into
their path. The driver of the Mer-
cedes swerved to avoid a collision,
ran over the high curb and struck a
low iron fence. The driver opened
the door, ready to leap out and ac-
cost the driver of the Volkswagen.
The Marine sitting next to him
grabbed him around the neck and
hauled him back into the car.

The side door of the Volkswagen
slid open and three men leaped out
and ran towards the Mercedes. The
Marine reached over the driver for
the door. It was just beyond his
grasp. The first of the three reached
the open door and thrust the barrel
of a small shotgun into the car and
blew the Marine’s face off.

The Marine next to Prima and
Stewart had pushed them both to
the floor of the car before it
had stopped moving. As the first
Marine was blasted back into the
car, the second fired half a dozen
explosive rounds into the chest of
the man with the shotgun.

“Shut the fucking door!’’ the
Marine screamed.

The blood-drenched driver made
a grab for the door and one of the
terrorists caught his arm, pulled him
into the street, and dispatched him
bloodily with a machine pistol.

The other terrorist fired at the
Marine through the rear window of
the car, but the bullets splattered

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

against the thick glass, causing
spider web patterns.

The same glass that protected the
occupants of the car protected the
terrorists surrounding it. The Marine
could see the man with the machine
pistol pull the pin on a small gre-
nade, silently count the few sec-
ond’s delay and, at the last mo-
ment, toss the grenade into the front
seat of the car where it burst, im-
mediately filling the car with a
choking, eye-searing, blue-white
narcotic smoke. The three men in
the car lost consciousness.

★ ★ *

/ must be alive, Stewart thought,
because I hurt like Hell! Stewart’s
hands were bound behind his back
in a painful position. A teeth-
rattling vibration coupled with a
deafening roar served to round out
his acute discomfort. He groaned
and tried to straighten out his legs.
“This one’s awake!’’ a voice yelled
above the deep roar.

Stewart’s eyes burned and every-
thing was obscured by a watery
haze as he was pulled roughly to a
sitting position. He gasped as pain
shot through his shoulders and
arms. He blinked to clear his eyes.

His tormentor was a young man
dressed in light green fatigues.
“Listen to me, spaceman!’’ he
shouted. “Don’t give us any trouble
or we’ll toss you overboard! Got
it?” The man slapped Stewart with
the back of his hand. The sharp
stinging blow brought tears to his

139

eyes again. He could taste blood
from a cut lip.

Stewart nodded. “I understand,”
he croaked, not at all sure he under-
stood anything.

“All right, now shut up!” The
man shoved him back on the floor
and moved away.

The trip lasted an eternity of
slightly less than three hours.
Stewart was pulled to his feet and
held between two men in front of a
sliding door. He realized for the
first time that he was in a helicop-
ter. As the copter settled to ground,
he could see that they were deep in
the mountains, in a narrow glacial
valley. For the first time since his
return to Earth he could see the sun.

The door was pulled open while
the copter was still a few meters
from the ground and Stewart was
treated to a little joke as his captors
playfully thrust him out the door,
then pulled him back.

When the copter touched down
they shoved him roughly out and he
just managed to keep his balance.
He stumbled forward and turned
just in time to see Prima, less fortu-
nate than he, sprawl heavily into the
wet meadow grass.

As soon as a great mound of
equipment had been unloaded —
rather more gently than the
prisoners — and carried into the
trees, the copter lifted and headed
back down the valley at high speed.

Three of the terrorists, armed
with formidable-looking automatic
weapons, had remained with them.

One of them indicated that Stewart
and Prima should move into the
trees and sit. When they had done
so he squatted a short distance from
them with his back against a tree.
His machine gun wasn’t pointed di-
rectly at them but the man was ob-
viously alert. The other two pulled
an assortment of plastic-wrapped
breads, cheeses, and sausages from
an old rucksack. Another rucksack
yielded three unlabeled bottles of
wine. As the three ate, their guard’s
eyes never left his prisoners.

When Stewart sat down beside
Prima he had thought they might be
prevented from talking, but the
gunmen didn’t seem to care.

“You hurt very much?” Stewart
asked.

Prima shook his head. “No. My
muscles ache, but that’s all. How
about you?”

“I’m okay.” He looked at their
captors. “Who the Hell are these
clowns? Do you have any idea what
they want with us?”

“Possibly ransom. I don’t think
they took us just to kill us; they
could have done that at the car. Of
course, I might be wrong.”

“One of them called me ‘space-
man,’ so I assume they know who I
am. Must have figured I’d be worth
something. I’m not sure to
whom . . .’’He grinned crookedly.

When the guard finished eating
he called to the others. One of them
untied Stewart’s and Prima’s hands
and gave them food and wine.

Occasionally, one of the men

140

GALAXY

scanned the valley with a pair of
binoculars. It was less than half an
hour after the helicopter had
dropped them in the valley that the
man’s search was rewarded. He
stood up, called softly to his com-
panions, and pointed up the valley.

Prima looked over his shoulder
then turned back, disgustedly.
“Horsemen! Bloody barbarians.”
Within minutes of being sighted,
the riders had entered the small
camp and dismounted. There were
four riders and twelve horses. All
but the man guarding them and one
of the riders began to pack the
equipment onto the horses. The one
rider was at least two meters tall
and possessed a bushy black mous-
tache. As he approached the cap-
tives he pulled thick leather gloves
off his hands and smiled disarm-
ingly.

“Dr. Prima,” he said, thrusting
out his hand. “We meet under un-
fortunate circumstances. I trust
you’re unharmed?” He turned to
Stewart. “And you must be Dr.
Stewart.” Again he put out his
hand and, reflexively, Stewart
clasped it.

“You have the advantage, sir,”
said Prima.

The man grinned. “In more ways
than one. I’m called Draken.”
“Well, Mr. Draken—”

“No mister; just Draken.”
“Draken. Maybe you could ex-
plain what you want with us.”

“All in good time. Right now we
have to travel quite a distance. Can

you ride?” Both men nodded.
“Good.”

Draken called out to one of the
riders and the other brought two
wool-lined, hooded coats. “You’ll
need these. We have to cross a high
pass. No snow this time of year,
but it’s still too cold for what
you’re wearing.” He turned and
walked away to examine the prog-
ress of the loading.

Stewart had not been on a horse
since he was a child. He still ached
from the hours he had spent tied up
in the helicopter. The ascent to the
pass and the descent into another
narrow glacial valley took four tor-
turous hours.

When he was finally allowed to
dismount, Stewart’s legs wouldn’t
hold him and he had to hold onto
his horse to keep from falling to the
ground. Prima, he noticed, hadn’t
fared much better.

In the deep blue evening
shadows, Stewart could see a clus-
ter of small stone buildings into
which the men were carrying the
equipment. Their guard was still
close, still silent.

As Draken passed one time,
Stewart called out. “Why the Hell
couldn’t the helicopter have brought
us all the way?’ ’

The man’s smile was wide and
his teeth looked abnormally white in
the darkness. “Security. The people
on the chopper have no idea where
this camp is.”

“Are we still in Switzerland?”
asked Prima.

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

141

“Does it matter?” asked Draken.

“When are you going to fill us in
on the master plan?” said Prima.

“In a few minutes. Do you see
that small house? The third on the
left?” He pointed. “Go there, up-
stairs, and wait.”

Draken watched them as they
limped slowly toward the little stone
house, their ever-present shadow
with the machine gun a few paces
behind.

A young technician loaded down
with electronic gear almost collided
with Draken in the deepening dark-
ness. “Sorry,” she said.

“No harm done,” he said. “Do
me a favor? When you’ve delivered
that stuff, tell Wolf we’re ready.
Okay?”

‘‘Sure, Draken.” She hurried
away.

The stone stairs to the second
story were on the outside of the
building. A heavy curtain hung in
the doorway. Stewart pushed passed
it into a short passage and under
another curtain. The room was
empty except for a rough wooden
table and a dozen straightbacked
chairs. The light came from three
electric lanterns suspended from
ceiling beams. The windows were
covered with black cloth.

Within minutes, people began to
enter the room. None of them said
anything to Stewart or Prima, who
had taken seats facing the curtained
door. Three men and one woman
were facing Stewart and Prima
when Draken entered, accompanied

142

by a small, intense man. Draken
took a chair near the door, while
the other man sat on the table in
front of the prisoners. He had a
small tape recorder which he placed
beside him and switched on.

The man had light brown hair
and piercing, pale blue eyes. He
leaned forward, his elbows on his
knees, his face less than half a
meter from Prima’ s.

“My name is Wolf,” he said.
His accent was German. “I am the
leader of this cadre. Each of the
people here is representing a differ-
ent, international political-action
group. Your abduction was ordered
for the purpose of obtaining con-
firming information and statements
relevant to your country’s true posi-
tion on the present world crisis.”
‘‘Why am I here?” asked
Stewart.

“We have known of your com-
plicity in this plot for some time.
Dr. Stewart, and you were recog-
nized by one of those assigned to
abduct Dr. Prima. He felt you could
be of some use to us.”

“What the hell is this ‘plot’ I’m
Involved in?” said Stewart.

The woman laughed, but there
was no humor in it. “We are not
playing games, Stewart,” she said.
Her voice was deceptively gentle,
soft — and frightening.

“Maybe we should play their
game for a while,” Draken said.
“Explain it to them as if they had
no idea what we’re talking about — ”
“I don’t,” interrupted Stewart.

GALAXY

“ — and maybe they’ll realize
how stupid it is to lie to us.”

Wolf nodded. “Also, he could
actually be a dupe. It is not very
likely considering the evidence, but
who can tell?”

Wolf turned to face Stewart di- .
rectly. “You were ordered to pre-
pare documents and deliver them to
Dr. Prima. True?”

Stewart nodded.

“These documents were falsified
to show the world situation to be
much worse than it is.” He held up
his hand as Stewart opened his
mouth. “Wait. First listen, then
comment.

“The purpose of this falsified in-
formation was to convince the Third
World that its only hope for survi-
val is complete submission to the
Western capitalist states and their
lackeys. Actually, there are vast
grain surpluses throughout the U.S.
and Canada which are being witheld
to force a political ideology on the
Third World by using the threat of
famine. A famine which would not
naturally occur.”

Stewart sat in stunned silence for
a few moments. He glanced at
Prima who was engrossed with a
hangnail.

“I think you are serious,” said
Stewart.

“Believe me. Dr. Stewart, we
are.”

“Then you’re insane.”

“Then you deny the charge?”

“(jood God, man! Not three days
ago, from orbit, I looked down on

the ruins of Dakar. It was destroyed
in the food riots. All of Central Af-
rica is a dust bowl! The Ukraine,
Northern India, Mid-west America,
Indo-China — you name it — all the
same! Droughts, floods, the
gamma-5 pandemic — ”

“Lies,” said Wolf.

Stewart shook his head. He
turned to Prima. “Jeff, tell him.”
Prima smiled wearily. “There is
no way to convince this man. Will,
short of taking him into orbit to see
for himself.” He leaned back in his
chair and contemplated \Wolfs ex-
pressionless face.

“I do not think this is an effec-
tive method. Wolf,” the young
woman said.

“You always did prefer the more
direct means,” Wold replied.

He turned to Prima again. “What
have you to say to the charge?”
“You’re wrong about our plans.”
Wolfs eyebrows went up, show-
ing his doubt.

“What I intend to propose,” con-
tinued Prima, “is a worldwide aid
plan that involves all the developed
countries. A plan to give food,
machinery, medicine, et cetera, to
the Thirds, no strings attached.”
Stewart, who had been listening
with a growing look of amazement,
laughed. “You’re totally insane,
too!”

Ignoring Stewart, Wolf shook his
head. “If you think I’d believe that,
your naivete is astonishing.”

“I think I can prove it,” Prima
said.

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

143

“How?” said Draken.

“I noticed that my briefcase was
among the things loaded on the
horses. Look in it.”

Wolf glanced over his shoulder at
Draken. “True?”

Draken nodded. “We got it.
Haven’t had, time to look through
it yet.”

Five silent minutes had passed
when Draken pushed through the
curtain carrying the briefcase. At
Wolf’s direction, he handed it to
Prima. As Prima flipped the latch,
the guard moved behind his back
and loudly cocked his weapon.

Prima pulled a thin folder from
the case and handed it to Wolf.
“Look through that.”

With Draken looking over his
shoulder. Wolf quickly scanned the
short document. He slowly shut the
folder and looked up.

“He’s telling the truth about
this,” he tapped the folder. “They
do plan to recommend an aid pro-
gram.”

“Uon’t get it,” said one of the
men at the table. He spoke with an
American accent. His words were
slightly slurred due to the lack of
upper front teeth.

The man seated next to him at
the table cleared his throat. “For
once, Jerry has a point. I do not
‘get it’ either.” The speaker was a
tall black man, taller even than
Draken, who sounded like he had
learned his English at Oxford.

While the two spoke. Wolf stared
at Prima, a frown on his face.

When the others at the table started
to join in. Wolf held up his hand.

“All right!” he shouted. “Shut
up!”

Wolf looked from Prima to
Stewart and back again. “Stewart,
you say your documents are not
fakes?”

Stewart nodded, puzzled.

The murmur began again but
ceased when Wolf again held up his
hand. He slowly began to look
through Prima’s briefcase. He
pulled a set of the prints Stewart
had brought from the orbital obser-
vatory. He looked at each print and
read the brief explanation printed on
the back.

Wolf pushed himself off the table
and turned to the others who were
seated around the room. “This part
is over. Clear out.”

“What the Hell!” said Jerry.
“You can’t throw us out like that.”

“Yes, Jerry, I can,” said Wolf,
with deadly softness. “You
know — or should know — I can do
whatever I feel I must to achieve a
successful conclusion to this mis-
sion. And I do not have to explain
anything I do to you. Now I want
everyone out, with the exception of
Draken.” He turned to the guard
behind Prima. “Give your weapon
to Draken and leave.”

Draken took the machine gun and
went to Wolf’s side as the guard
left the room.

The tall African stood up slowly
and stretched. “If Wolf wants us to
leave, he has a good reason. But

144

GALAXY

good reason or not, he was chosen
as our commander for this jaunt and
his word is our law.”

He left the room followed by the
others. Jerry, the last out, paused
with his hand on the curtain, a look
of intense hatred on his face. He
opened his mouth to speak, then
simply shook his head and left.

Wolf snapped the recorder off
and sat in one of the vacated chairs.
“You shits are going to pull a fast
one, aren’t you?” he said. “I’ve
got the feeling that the whole popu-
lation conference is a sham.”

Prima said nothing, his expres-
sion blank.

“Draken, what do you think they
are planning?” asked Wolf.

“Well, if the situation is as bad
as Stewart says it is — and person-
ally I believe it is — then the plan
Prima’s recommending is useless.”
Wolf nodded. “I agree. Tell us,
Prima. Why are you going to re-
commend this worthless crap.”

“I thought you didn’t believe this
stuff,” Stewart said, tapping the
photos.

“Let us say ‘officially,” I can’t
believe it. Realistically, I can’t ig-
nore it.”

“Why do you think he sent the
others out?” said Draken. “We don’t
need that bullshit rhetoric now.”
“Stewart, listen!” Wolf said. “If
it is necessary to bend reality to ac-
complish our goals we will do it.
Prima and I are on different sides of
the political fence, but he uses the
same tactics that I do!”

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

“Not quite,” interjected Prima.

“Oh?”

“You murdered three people
when you kidnapped us,” said
Stewart.

“Stewart, unless I’m mistaken,
Prima is planning the murder of ap-
proximately two billion people. The
man could go down in history — if
anyone’s left to write it — as the
most despicable mass murderer the
human race has ever known.”

“What the hell are you talking
about?” Stewart shouted.

“Use your head, man!” Wolf
shouted back. “These bastards are
going to tell the biggest lie in his-
tory. They are going to say: ‘We
are going to help you, we will do
this and do that and everything will
be fine.’ Like Hell! What they are
going to do is stall around until ev-
eryone in Asia, Africa and Latin
America is stone dead from
famine.” He turned to Draken.
“What do you think?”

“I read it the same way. The
question is why?”

“Yes,” said Wolf, nodding.
“Any comment, Prima?”

“That’s the most ridiculous piece
of sophistry I’ve ever heard,” he
said calmly.

Wolf sighed deeply; it was the
answer he had expected. Abruptly
he stood up. “Put these two in their
cage, Draken. We can let Maria
work on them tomorrow.” He left
the room without a glance or
another word.

“Maria’s not a nice lady,” Dra-

145

ken said. “She’ll probably get Jerry
to help. He’s nasty, too.”

“What do you expect to find
out?” Stewart said.

“They’ll probably try to get
Prima to verify Wolfs accusation.
If they do, then they’ll want to
know the motive.”

“I thought he didn’t want them
to know,” said Prima.

Draken smiled. “No, that’s not
why he sent them out. They have a
habit of arguing pointless nuances
for hours on end. It makes it hard
for Wolf to concentrate.”

“Why did he let you stay?”

“He trusts me. We’ve known
each other for a long time.” He
moved toward the door. “Now I’ll
take you to where you’re going to
spend the night.”

They followed him down the nar-
row stone steps and across the
“main street” of the tiny village.
Their path was marked by small,
hooded globes that glowed with a
dim blue light. Stewart could see
lines of the small lights branching
off in various directions. The night
was very cold.

They climbed another set of ex-
terior steps. Draken pulled a heavy
wooden door open and the men
stepped into a narrow passage and
pushed under a thick black curtain
into a small, windowless room. A
small electric lantern, giving off a
harsh light, hung from the ceiling.
There were two folding cots set up
with a stack of heavy wool blankets
on each.

“Somewhat primitive,” said
Draken, “but I hope you’ll find it
adequate. There’s food if you want
it.” He motioned toward some plas-
tic-wrapped packages sitting on a
small table in the corner. “There
will be an armed guard outside.
Good night, gentlemen.”

The door closed softly. They
heard the rasp of an iron bolt being
thrust into place.

Stewart sat down on one of the
cots with a groan of fatigue. The
cot creaked. “What the Hell are we
gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Will,” Prima
said, as he stretched out on his cot.
“I really don’t know.”

* * ★

Stewart awoke with a start. His
heart was beating painfully fast.
Someone had unbolted the door and
entered the room. The lantern was
out and Stewart could see nothing.
He sat up quietly.

“Don’t say anything, Stewart.”
The voice was muffled, but he rec-
ognized it as Draken’s.

The lantern flooded the room
with brilliance and Stewart winced.
Draken’s head was enclosed in a
bulky black bubble. There was a
single, huge lens in the center of
the thing. He held the straps of two
more black helmets in his hand.
The other hand held two rucksacks
and a machine gun. He was dressed
in a one-piece black suit and had
another rucksack strapped to his

146

GALAXY

back. He looked like an astronaut,
suited up for an EVA — except that
the image was negative: black suit
rather than white.

He set the rucksacks on the floor
and sat down on the cot next to
Stewart, still holding the helmets
and the gun.

From across the room, Prima
grunted and pushed his head from
under the blankets. “What’s going
on?”

Draken lifted the helmet off and
put it next to his feet. “We’re leav-
ing. I’m taking you out of here,
back to Bern.” He slipped his
rucksack off and put it next to his
helmet.

“You’re letting us go?” said
Stewart.

Prima pushed his covers off and
reached for his shoes. He slept in
his clothes.

“No, I’m not letting you go: I’m
helping you escape.”

“Jesus,” Stewart said, “this is
too much for me.”

“Are you DCI?” Prima asked.

Draken nodded. “Sort of. Branch
of it.”

“This is going to blow your
cover for good.”

Draken shrugged. “It’s worth
it.”

“DCI?” said Stewart.

“I work for an American intelli-
gence agency,” Draken said, bend-
ing over one of the rucksacks. He
withdrew a small wad of black
cloth. “This is an Army surplus
jump suit, like I’m wearing. It’ll

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

keep you warm even in a blizzard.
I’ve got boot liners, too. Keep your
feet warm and dry.” What he pull-
ed out looked like a thin pair of
socks.

‘‘Are we walking out?” asked
Prima.

‘‘It’s the only way. Horses can’t
go the way we have to go.”

‘‘God,” said Stewart, pulling on
the jump suit. ‘‘I hate those
horses.”

Draken held up one of the black
helmets. ‘‘This is also Army
surplus. A Star Scope by name.”

He slipped the thing over
Stewart’s head. It was a snug fit
and Stewart mumbled about the
helmet’s weight. Draken snapped
the visor up, made an adjustment,
and pushed it down again.

Stewart’s perception of the room
altered sickeningly. The lens cov-
ered almost a full 180 '’ and it was
all compressed onto the small,
wrap-around screen on the inside of
the visor. He could see his feet and
the ceiling at the same time, all in a
pale greenish-white tint.

Draken slurped across the screen
and cut the lantern off. Everything
in the room was still discernible,
but Just barely. The light source
seemed to come from Draken’s
hand. Stewart realized suddenly
that the room was illuminated by
the glowing numerals on Draken’s
watch.

‘‘It’ll be much brighter outside.
There are no clouds tonight.” He
switched the lantern on again and

148

the lens automatically closed down
with a faint whir. ‘‘Leave the Scope
on, Stewart. Walk around and get
used to the viewscreen. Here’s your
helmet, Prima. You do the same.
There are receivers in the helmets,
and I’ve got throat mikes for each
of us.”

In a short time, both men could
walk without tripping over their
own feet and Draken decided they
should leave. He adjusted their
rucksacks and checked their helmets
and throat mikes. He bent over his
own rucksack and when he stood up
he held two small machine pistols
with holsters and belts. Stewart
noted that they were the same type
that had been used so efficiently
during his capture in Bern.

‘‘I don’t expect you’ll have to
use these,” said Draken, handing
the weapons to each man, ‘‘but it
won’t hurt to have them in case.
Don’t use them in the village —
under any circumstances — or we’ve
bought it. We must get out of camp
undetected.” He pulled his helmet
on and shrugged his rucksack into
place. As he passed under the lan-
tern he shattered it with a casual
swing of his gun barrel.

‘‘Don’t trip over the guard,”
Draken said, his voice tinny in the
helmet’s receiver.

They stepped over the prostrate
figure Just outside the door and onto
the stone stairs. Through their hel-
mets the dim blue lights lit the
small village better than floodlights
could have.

GAUXY

Stewart paused momentarily and
Draken touched him lightly on the
arm, correctly evaluating the reason
for his hesitation. “Don’t worry,
it’s only bright for us.’’

“Doesn’t anyone else have these
Star Scopes?’’ asked Prima.

Draken chuckled. “Not any
more.’’

They went around the side of the
house and headed for the trees
standing about 100 meters from the
village.

The valley was U shaped, with a
reasonably flat floor between two
steep walls. Once in the trees, they
headed up the valley, closest to the
cliff on their left. To their right a
small stream glowed with a faint
phosphorescence.

“There’s a pass about four
kilometers from here,’’ Draken said
as they walked. “We have to cross
over to the next valley. There’s a
transmitter up there I stashed about
three days ago — ’’

“Were you expecting this?’’ in-
terrupted Stewart.

“No. Three days ago I didn’t
even know why we came here. I
just like to have a bolt hole.

“Anyway,” Draken continued,
“we’ll be picked up a half-hour
after I put in the call.”

A little over 40 minutes after they
started the three men stood at the
base of a narrow crack in the face
of the cliff.

“It’s an almost vertical climb for
about 100 meters, then a gentle
slope up and over to the next val-

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

ley. The climb isn’t too difficult,
but you’ll have to watch what
you’re doing.”

As Draken had promised, their
upward route wasn’t very arduous,
but it was time consuming. All
three men were close to exhaustion
by the time they were 100 meters
above the valley floor.

After a short rest, they started up
the slope and soon emerged from
the towering cliffs and stood over-
looking another quiet valley.
Stewart stood near the edge of the
steep drop for a few moments and
then turned back to where the other
two were sitting.

“This looks rougher than the one
we came up,” he said.

“We don’t have to climb down,”
said Draken. “The transmitter is
about a half-kilometer from here.”
He pointed parallel to the cliff’s
edge. “Along that ridge.” Draken
stood up.

Within minutes the three stood
under a low rock overhang where
Draken had hidden the transmitter.
As Draken moved toward the back
of the shelter, Prima sat down just
beyond the overhanging rock and
pulled his helmet off. With a sigh
of relief Stewart followed suit. The
night was cold and dark, the stars
like diamond chips on black satin.
Stewart could just distinguish Pri-
ma’ s form sitting less than a meter
from him.

They sat in silence for a long
while, then Stewart shifted his body
a little closer to Prima.

149

“Jeff?” said Stewart hesitantly.
“What is it, Will?”

“I’ve been thinking about what
Wolf said back there . . He
paused again.

“You want to know if he guessed
right.” Pritna sighed deeply.

At that point Draken joined them.
“Had some trouble with the
transmitter at first but it’s okay
now. I got the message off.” He
had his helmet visor raised, but they
couldn’t see his face. “I heard what
you were saying,” he tapped his
helmet and Stewart realized his
throat mike was still transmitting.
“I’d like to hear the answer.”

Prima was silent for a few mo-
ments. “Hell,” he said softly, his
voice barely audible above the
wind. “Hell, why not? Of course
he was right. Right on all counts.”
“Damn,” said Draken, quietly.
“I’d kind of hoped ... oh, shit.”
“Is that it?” said Stewart.
“What?”

“Man calmly says: ‘Yeah, uh
we’re gonna kill a couple billion
people.’ What the hell is that?
Why? Why is it necessary to lie, to
give them false hopes? That could
push the death rate up a lot higher
than it has to go. How can you pos-
sibly justify what you plan to do?”
“Justify it?” Prima said, a sharp
edge to his voice. “It’s what must
be done.”

“How can you sit there and cold-
ly condemn billions of humans to
death as a matter of necessity?”
Stewart shouted.

150

“Damn it. Will,” Prima shouted
back, “I didn’t condemn them! I’ve
been screaming my head off for the
last twenty years! No one wanted to
listen. It wasn’t profitable, politi-
cally or ecomomically. Greed and
bullheaded stupidity got us here,
and now the only road out leads
straight through a die-off!”

“What do you mean ‘it’s what
must be done’?” Draken inter-
jected.

Prima sat with his elbows on his
knees, his expression one of intense
pain. His voice was tired when he
spoke. “It’s a calculated risk. Will.
If we stand back and say: ‘Sorry,
but it’s your own fault, and we
can’t do anything to get you out of
it,’ they will tear us apart. In a
few months they can pull us down
with them. If we want any faint
chance of surviving what’s coming
we have got to get them down be-
fore they realize their fall is inevita-
ble.”

“How can you be so sure?”
asked Draken.

“No one is sure. We know one
course of action leads to certain an-
nihilation. The other gives us about
one chance in five of greeting the
twenty-first century as something
more than stoneage barbarians.”

“I don’t like the idea of walking
over two billion dead bodies to get
there,” said Stewart.

“I don’t know anyone who does.
I’m sure it won’t — ”

He stopped, stunned, as a blind-
ingly harsh light flashed into being

GALAXY

directly overhead, freezing them
into immobility.

“Down!” yelled Draken. In one
continuous movement he grabbed
the front of Prima’s jump suit and
pulled him to the ground and kicked
Stewart backward off the rock he
was sitting on.

Stewart landed heavily on his
back, breath knocked out but
otherwise unhurt. The light cast
dense black shadows that shifted
with confusing rapidity.

Suddenly Draken was beside him
with his helmet. “Put this on!
That’s Wolf out there, and I’ve got
a feeling we’re going to have a bit
of a go ’round, wot?”

The flare still hung in the sky
above them, but it was flickering
slightly. Draken glanced up at it.
“Defective, should last longer than
that. Let’s move farther back under
the rocks. Keep low.”

“How did they manage to follow
us,” said Prima when they were
under the rock again.

“It’s possible that Wolf or one of
the others hung a micro-transmitter
on one of you — or maybe me,”

“I thought he couldn’t follow us
in the dark.”

“Maybe he got another Star
Scope somewhere. Maybe he’s got
cat’s eyes! Damn it, I don’t care
how he did it, what we’ve got to
worry about is that he did!” He
glanced at his watch. “That chop-
per will be here in fifteen minutes.
If we can hold out that long, we
should be OK.”

“Draken!” The voice from below
was amplified and echoed across the
valley. “Draken, come down. You
won’t be harmed.”

“Listen,” Draken said, “that
flare is going to go out in a few
seconds; when it does we’re going
to run like Hell, to the left, up and
behind this rock we’re under. Think
both of you can make it?”

“Yes,” said Prima
“Sure,” agreed Stewart.

As he had predicted, the flare
flickered one last time and died.
“Now! Follow me!” They followed
him from under the rock up a steep,
narrow path that led to the top of
the overhang. They were half way
up the path when another flare ig-
nited overhead. Bullets ricocheted
off the rocks around them when the
men below saw what they were try-
ing.

The top of the rock was steeply
sloped and devoid of vegetation.
Draken led them to a shallow,
bowl-like, rain-eroded depression
into which they jumped. A thin slit
in the bottom of the bowl had let
most of the rainwater out. A thin
skin of ice cracked under their feet.

“The only way up here is the
way we came,” Draken said. He
slumped back against the edge of
the rock. “Also, if they toss any
grenades, they’ll roll right off the
rock.”

“Unless they get one right in
here with us,” said Stewart.

“Always thinking of the bright
side, what?” said Draken.

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

151

“Draken,” the amplified voice
echoed, “you don’t have a chance.
We can wait you out. Come down
now and we’ll let you go your way.
We want Prima. You can walk
away, no questions.’’

When the voice first sounded,
Draken switched his weapon to sin-
gle shot and took careful aim at the
flare overhead. Although its motion
was intentionally erratic, it was not
too fast, and Draken was able to hit
its tiny roter with his second shot.
A few seconds after the flare
dropped from sight another took its
place.

He was taking aim at the new
flare when a grenade landed less
than two meters from their bowl. It
clattered noisily down the steep
rock and off the edge, exploding
with a tunderclap that vibrated
through the rock.

“I felt that one,’’ said Prima.
Draken swore softly. “That was
a concussion grenade. If one of
those things explodes up here it’ll
knock us flat, even if we’re not di-
rectly exposed to the blast.’’

As he finished speaking they saw
a grenade arch overhead and all
three threw themselves to. the bot-
tom of their bowl. The grenade hit
the rock, bounced into the air and
exploded. Stewart felt a bone-jar-
ring shock and a constriction in his
chest and then he blacked out.

Stewart awoke to the sound of
gunfire. He saw Draken at the edge
of the bowl, firing his weapon
down the slope. Stewart’s foot was

152

pinned under Prima’s inert body.
By the time he had freed it and got-
ten his pistol out of its holster, the
firing had stopped.

“Stay down. Will. They’re pull-
ing back for a while.’’

“Was I out long?’’

“A few seconds, I think. Not
long.’’ He looked at Prima.
“How’s he?”

Stewart felt for a pulse; it was
strong. “Alive.”

“Listen!” Draken grabbed his
arm. “Do you hear it? The chop-
per!”

Stewart could feel the low throb
of the helicopter’s engines. “Where
is it?”

“It’s close. Must be below our
line of sight.”

The terrorists began to fire their
guns again and suddenly the chop-
per passed directly over their rock
bowl, the rotor wash picking up ice
slivers and spinning them madly
through the air.

Draken waved and saw one of the
pilots acknowledge him. The
helicopter’s tail twisted around until
its nose was facing the terrorist’s
position, then the gunner fired a
salvo of antipersonnel rockets.
There was a deafening explosion
and an angry orange fireball rose
into the sky.

Stewart saw a figure in the chop-
per’s open hatch. The man was
waving and pointing toward the
path that led to the top of the rock.
There was a burst of gunfire from
below and the man pitched forward

GALAXY

with a scream, clutching his chest.
The chopper rose up and to the left,
trying to get out of the range of the
terrorist weapons.

“I think we’re about to get it,
Draken,” Stewart said, resting his
pistol on the lip of the bowl.

Three terrorists scrambled up the
rock, firing as they came. Draken
got off a half-dozen rounds and ran
out of ammunition. His burst caught
one man in the belly, and Stewart
hit one in the thigh. The third man
shot Draken as he was trying to re-
load. The impact spun him around
and knocked him against Stewart
and part way out of their bowl.

With uncanny speed, the remain-
ing terrorist ran forward and kicked
Stewart’s gun out of his hand. Ig-
noring the blinding pain in his gun
hand, Stewart reached forward and
grabbed the man behind the knee.
Off balance, with one foot still in
the air, the man fell heavily, the lip
of the bowl catching him in the
middle of the back. The man
screamed and twisted forward onto
Stewart and then he was still, his
back broken.

As Stewart pushed the man off
him, he heard sporadic gunfire be-
yond the edge of the rock, but noth-
ing moved on top of the rock.

He turned Draken over and raised
the visor of his helmet. His eyes
were open and lifeless. The blood
that had soaked Draken’s black jump
suit was invisible except where
it reflected the light of the flare.

“God damn," Stewart said

TOWARD THE FULLNESS OF FATE

softly. He pushed the visor down
and turned to Prima, who was
struggling to sit up.

“How long have I been out?” he
asked.

Stewart sat down on the rim of
the bowl, his shoulders bent forward.
“Less than five minutes, I’d
guess.”

The chopper appeared above
them again and a man in the hatch
waved, and then it moved off.

“I guess they want us to get
down off this damn rock,” said
Prima.

“Suits me.” He climbed out of
the bowl and started down the rock.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Dra-
ken?” Prima was bending over
Draken’s body.

Stewart didn’t stop or answer. He
was already halfway down the path
when he heard Prima’s softly mut-
tered “Oh” in his helmet receiver.

* * *

They sat in the same booth as be-
fore, close to the fire place. The
padded seats and table seemed to
have been pulled — like warm
taffy — right out of the wooden wall.
Stewart followed the flowing lines
with his eyes, thinking about the
past three days.

The helicopter had got them to
Bern at dawn. Stewart ate, took a
hot shower and went to bed. He had
slept until about 8:30 p.m., when
his phone rang. Prima told him he
could get him aboard the Zurich

154

shuttle to the orbital station at 11:00
p. m. if Stewart still wanted to go
back. Stewart said yes at the word
shuttle. Prima then invited him to
dinner, which offer he also ac-
cepted.

Now, dinner over, small glasses
of wine in front of each man, they
sat in silence. Prima sighed and sat
back. He looked at his watch.

“You’ll have to leave for the air-
port in a few minutes. I’ve got a car
waiting.”

“Thanks, Jeff.” He took a sip of
wine. ‘‘When are you going to
make your proposal to the confer-
ence?”

“I presented it this afternoon.”

He looks so tired, Stewart
thought. He looks five years older
than he did three days ago. / won-
der how I look?

“What did they think of it?’’

“They loved it. God help us,
they really loved it.”

“Did they find Wolf?”

Prima shook his head. “It doesn’t
matter. They won’t believe him.
There’s nothing he — or anybody —
could say that could take their hope
away now.”

Stewart nodded and stood up.
“Well ... I guess it’s time.”

“Yes. Thanks, Will. For every-
thing.”

The clouds had finally cleared,
and the night air was cool and
fresh. Stewart paused on the curb
and looked up at the stars. He
sighed and climbed into the waiting
car. ★

GALAXY

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Name;

Streets

City:

State: Zip;

Mail With Remittance To:
GALAXY MAGAZINE
350 Kennedy Drive
Hauppauge, New York 11787

Dear Sir:

The short poem you’ll find attached to this
letter is, I believe, an appropriate expression
of what science fiction is to those who love
it, and could be to everyone else:

Science Fiction
The best and fondest
of all our dreams
are wrapped up in science fiction.

It is a plea to the human race
to seek out the infinite
and a warning of the consequences
if we don’t.

It is a world of make-believe,
or if and maybe md just suppose,
the greatest, most enduring aspirations,
the one last racial wishing-well
not yet gone dry.

Sincerely,
Gary McKinley

RR #1

Box 129-40

Eldon, Missouri 6S026

As good a definition as any I've seen.

Dear Mr. Baen;

Re: C. Henrich’s letter on possible
monopole UFO propulsion (Feb.). 'The grav-
ity and inertia defying antics of UFOs cannot
be explained except by a gravity shield. Such
a shield would have to be generated by a
new physical force (only four are known)
since it would produce a gravitational field

156

without the addition of large masses. The
shield would cancel inertial mass; which
educes a classic question: Is inertial mass in-
trinsic or due to the gravitational field of the
universe (Mach’s Principle)?

A recent patent (#3,626,605) claims to
have experimentally verified such a fifth
force. The inventor claims that if materials
constituted of half integral spin nuclei, like
copper, are accelerated relative to each other,
the nuclei become increasingly polarized
under a fifth force and that a gravitational
field arises, which can be made to balance
gravity and reduce inertial mass to zero. I
imagine a craft constructed as follows: Con-
centric copper rings at high r.p.m., the cen-
tral ring being massive and fixed to the craft.
The outer rings would therefore be centrifug-
ally accelerated relative to the central ring.

1 want somebody to explain to me what
known force generates and perpetually sus-
tains particle and nuclei spin, and where the
energy source is.

Another curious physics fact that has es-
caped the would-be inventors of reactionless
propulsion systems is that while Newton’s
Third Law of action and reaction forbids
mechanical reactionless systems, Newton’s
law is generally invalid for electromagnetism
and therefore electromagnetic drives. One
example would be a charge moving perpen-
dicular to a current-canying wire. The cur-
rent exerts a force on the charge, but not
vice versa! A reactionless system would be
entirely enclosed, producing no pollution and
noise, and would appear to lose weight.

Cordially Yours,
A. H. Klotz

Physics Research
39 Simon St.

Babylon, N.Y. 11702

OK. I can accept that gravity is not a Force
inseparable from mass — but inertia.’ Let’s
see some experimental verification!

Dear Mr. Baen:

I’m writing in support of Jerry Poumelle’s
diatribe oh Cultures Beyond the Earth
(Maruyama and Harkins, ed.). I’m a grad

GALAXY

student in physics and I usually find Dr.
Poumelle’s article to be worth the price of
admission by itself. In this case, since I had
read most of the book (I quit on p. 91), he
didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t essentially
seen for myself, but the chance to watch a
master dissect the amateur planet-builders
(with one hand in his back pocket, no doubt)
made up for it.

I’ve been interested in anthropology for
years, and in SF for more years, so like Dr.
Poumelle I was pleased to see a “scholarly”
book on exosocial science. Like Dr. Pour-
nelle I was disappointed — and, yes, angry —
at what is being passed off as scholarship.
For example, Maruyama, in his introduction,
claims that physics is inapplicable to biology
since classical thermodynamics always im-
plies increasing homogeneity, and cannot ex-
plain the heterogeneity characteristic of life:
“It simply begged the question by saying
that a living organism is not an isolated sys-
tem.” (p. 8). Well, if he’s talking about
19th century thermodynamics, admitting that
the thermodynamics of isolated systems
doesn’t apply to life is just sensible; if he’s
talking about the twentieth century, he’s
flatly wrong. A man named Prigogene has
shown rigorously that in an open system with
energy flow (e.g. the earth), order or
heterogeneity can increase without bound.
His studies also indicate that the formation of
the first life forms may have been due to the
presence of chemical instabilities, much as
the structure of convection cells can appear
in an homogeneous body of water in the pre-
sence of an unstable temperature profile.

Some of the articles in Cultures betray not
only an ignorance of the physical sciences
(and perhaps a disinclination to remedy that
ignorance), but ignorance of the social and
biological sciences. The article on “First
Contact” by Donald K. Stem, a sociology
student, describes the idea of detecting ad-
vanced technologies by their radiation of
waste heat in the deep infrared as absurd: “It
is a little like trying to analyze another cul-
ture by its garbage.” (p. 41). Ask an
archaeologist — any archaeologist — how much
he likes garbage heaps. Concentrated mate-

rials, quickly buried, rarely disturbed, layers
in neat reverse chronological order. . . .And
Stem’s remark (p. 45) that “(life) had been
evolving for 3,000 million years before the
human race appeared; birds and mammals
took only 200 million years. ...” Just
doesn’t bear comment.

Beyond that, for all their talk of
heterogeneity, the writers in Cultures are pret-
ty homogeneous in assuming a communistic
future society. That’s practically an article of
faith in the social science community. Their
chastisement of the astronomers for their
treatment of Velikovsky sounds pretty hol-
low when you consider the social scientists’
treatment of William Shockley or, for that
matter, Robert Ardrey.

I could go on forever, but the point is this:
the “serious” world is still thirty years be-
hind SF. If you want imaginative specula-
tion. informed by an understanding of the
hard physical, biological and social facts that
will constrain the future, without ideological
stereotypes, don’t look at the social scien-
tists. Dr. Poumelle was too modest to say
so, but The Mote in God's Eye is a better
piece of scholarship — yes, scholarship, if
that means the use of your brains and
education — than Cultures Beyond the Earth.
Larry Niven has written numerous stories on
the social effects of organ banks, teleporta-
tion etc. that are worth more thought than
this whole book.

That’s why I read Galaxy instead of
Human Behavior.

Sincerely,
Robert Hawkins

2185 S. Vine #524
Denver, CO 80210

Mr. Baen,

Would you ask Jerry Poumelle to write
(sometime) a science fact article on the big
bang theory? I’ve heard it banged around
occasionally but I still know relatively little
about h.

If he has no tendencies toward writing
about this, could you refer me to some other
source I could correspond with to answer a
few of my questions? Please. — Thank you.

157

DIRECTIONS

By the way —

Questions:

1. Big Bang! Eveiy thing moving away
from source, and consequently every
thing else, at tremendous rates of
speed. Would this have effects on
space travel?

2. Solar system sailing along through
galaxy which sails glibly through
universe. Is our galaxy eventually
going to disperse? Or will it kinda
hang together like planets in solar
system?

3. Would it not be splendid (if we cared
to go in that particular direction) to
merely step off one sailing thing-a-
majig and hold still until the next one
comes flying by?

If feel I am quite tangled in my screwy
information. Could you please straighten me
out?

Yours respectually,
Sharon L. Bannon

1 109 Granville Rd.

Westfield, Mass. 01085

Jerry was kind enough to reply at some
length:

Dear Ms. Bannon,

Jim Baen has forwarded your letter to me.

I may one day write a column on the Big
Bang; tell you what, when we get a few
more letters requesting it, maybe I’ll do it.
The problem is that many readers already
know or think they do, and there’s a lot of
material in print on the subject; I try to keep
the colunm consistent with the title and deal
with new stuff. I need an angle that hasn’t
been used.

Answering your specific questions:

What’s receding is galaxies; thus the
relative motions involved won’t have much
effect on space travel until we try to go to a
different galaxy; and since there’s about 100
billion stars in ours, it may take a while
before we care to leave it!

Our galaxy isn’t going to disperse. One
supposed that over a long enough period of
itime the stars will slow down, due to
interstellar gup like dust, and the galaxy will

158

all compact together. This happens in
something like a billion billion years, so not
to worry; long before then, if the
cosmologists are right, the receding galaxies
will themselves have come to a halt and
begin coming back together for another
compacting and another Big Bang. There are
problems with that theory, so if you don’t
care for it, you needn’t accept it; but indeed
our galaxy will hang together for precisely
the same reason that the solar system hangs
together.

Stepping off an object in space will not
bring you to a halt; you will retain the same
velocity. It is as if you jumped off an
asteroid (there are many smaU enough so that
you could jump off them) — you would still
be travelling in approximately the same orbit
as the asteroid, and have about the same
velocity (well, speed, actually) relative to the
Sun.

In science, as in fiction by a good author,
the general rule is: "when in perplexity, read
on!” We may not get all the answers, but
we’ll have a lot of them if you look for
them.

Thank you for writing.

Sincerely,
Jerry Poumelle

Dear Mr. Baen,

First time loccer and all that. . .1 started
with Galaxy and then If three years ago, and
have since watched you build them up into
the best prozines on the market. You’ll
notice that I still speak of If in the present
tense. I’m confident you’ll find a way to re-
vive it — we need the market.

Looking thru the Jan. issue. . .That Cov-
er!!! There must be some way that you could
reprint that, say 2' x 3' on light poster stock
gloss for around five dollars. At least some-
thing without the logo &c Stembach is easily
the best spaceship artist (how’s that for a sub-
genre?) ever.

As to the “free art” inside the cover — how
about alternating established artists with
those new to the field? Until // comes back,
anyway.

Your graphics altogether have improved
indescribably in the last year. Using a sort of

GALAXY

Hyleaf on your main feature is an excellent
idea.

The science column was excellent.
Perhaps you could have a Niven/Poumelle
team article about one out of four issues. It
could be used for articles about more sf-ish
concepts; space drives, things like Bigger
Than Worlds that Niven had in Analog some
time back.

Back with the art — please give the full name
of every artist on the page where his drawing
appears. You wouldn't print the story with-
out the author’s name, would you?

I enjoy Spider’s column — no criticism, just
a friendly chat with somebody that read the
book. Why waste $1 .50? By the way, he did
miss mention of the awards given Queen of
Air & Darkness, but 1 won’t tell anybody.

I’m not going to pass judgement on “We
■Who Are About To. . .’’ until I read the
second half. So far, the writing is great but

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The complete fiction of H. P. Lovecraft. 200
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the story revolts me.

I enjoyed all of the shorts, especially
O’Donnell’s and Robinson’s. And 1 miss the
editorial. C’mon, friend, you must have
something worth saying.

I also cast a vote for few serials. Few
novels can stand the strain of serialization.
They resemble the differences between made
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normal films where the breaks merely dis-
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I close with hope for your future (con-
tinued) success. Just keep up that sense of
the editor’s presence, and I’ll keep buying.

Sincerely,
Douglas S. Carey

11355 Lincoln St.

Robertsville, OH 44670

I'm here, I'm here!

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159

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160

GALAXY

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When your application for membership is ac-
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